


Did You Kill Bruce Maddox?

by turingtestflunker



Series: The Past is Another Planet [3]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol as Assault, Body Horror, Broken Bones, Bruce Maddox is his own warning, Captain Picard is very uncomfortable, Data's emotions, Data's paintings, Discussion Of A Dead Child, Discussion of Abortion, Disturbing Themes, Disturbing dreams, Explicit discussion of murder, Extremely Unethical Use of Alcohol, Forced Infanticide, Gen, Geordi and Data being bros, Geordi's VISOR, Infanticide, Medical Kink, Mentions of sex work, Misgendering, Murder, Murder Mystery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Abortion, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Period Typical Bigotry, Screwy power dynamics, Sexual Subtext, Starfleet behaving badly, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Zimmerman should be his own warning, discussion of rape fantasies, graphic depiction of forced drugging, prejudice against androids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2020-07-08 04:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19863832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turingtestflunker/pseuds/turingtestflunker
Summary: Bruce Maddox has been murdered. The list of possible suspects is a mile long, but Data is at the top of it. Worf and Geordi race against time to help their friend clear his name before it's too late.





	1. What Geordi Can See

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always to my beta Klaaraa, without whom I would have given up on this project long ago.

The stardate is 36347.5, the time is 2038 hours. Data is off duty. When Data is on duty, he devotes 89.67% of his available cognitive power to his work. A small amount of bandwidth is set aside for ongoing, necessary, internal functions in his artificial body. An additional 7.23% is dedicated to monitoring the workplace social interactions of his crewmates. This percentage has been rising steadily since Data was assigned to the Enterprise, from a starting average of 2.93%. He has consulted Geordi, Counselor Troi, and Dr. Crusher about the significance of this change. They all concur that it is a positive development, perhaps even a step on his journey towards becoming more human.

As Data is currently off duty, he is, as is his habit, splitting his attention between several personal pursuits, allowing the allocation of resources to each one to vary moment to moment according to what Counselor Troi would call his ‘whims’. Data is not certain he has whims, per se. He does have unpredictable preferences and reactions in various personal or low priority situations. Counselor Troi is of the opinion that these preferences and reactions are sufficiently similar to what organic lifeforms would call whims as to be semantically interchangeable in normal conversation.

Currently, Data is engaged in two major pursuits, while also simultaneously considering many lines of thought. He is listening to seven of the Klingon operas most recently suggested to him by Lieutenant Worf, in preparation for a planned discussion of their themes and impact on Klingon culture. He is also painting. The work is currently untitled. It is a colorful, geometric piece, somewhat reminiscent of a complex but neatly wound and interwoven array of pipes or cables. It has been...persistently unsatisfactory, for reasons that Data has not been able to identify. He continues to return to it, adding additional elements, attempting to resolve his dissatisfaction. The element that he is adding now is somewhat unconventional, but he believes it may be key to truly completing the painting. 

Data’s thoughts are especially eclectic today. As always, he is considering several ongoing questions. A design flaw in the Enterprise’s sensor array that has been causing recurrent issues, and how best to fix or bypass the issue. Whether or not he should address a recent slight decrease in the efficiency of one of his subordinates, and if so how to go about it. The appropriate response to a cryptic message from Andy Hegel. Data suspects that early 21st century cultural context may be important to deciphering its social significance, and has requested additional information on the subject from the Vulcan Science Academy.

There are other thoughts also. Thoughts which do not follow existing lines of reasoning. Recollections of facts that are not relevant to his current activities. The fact that it has been 32 days, 23 minutes, and 15 seconds since Lal became completely unresponsive. The details of the massive damage done to her positronic brain by the cascade failure. The extreme improbability of Data ever being able to reactivate her. The location of her remains, in a secure container in cargo bay 6. The Daystrom Institute requested custody of the remains, for research purposes. Although their case was well reasoned, Data declined. 

Data completes his work on the painting, washes his brushes and palette and returns them to their proper places. It is now 2043. Earlier today, Geordi indicated that he would visit Data’s quarters at 2030. However, past experience has shown that Geordi often has difficulty leaving Engineering at the times he specifies, so Data is not especially concerned about his tardiness. He replicates a plate of assorted small sandwiches. Geordi frequently forgets to eat while on duty.

Geordi arrives at 2049. Data often has difficulties assessing others’ emotional state. The issue is less pronounced with persons he is familiar with, and Geordi is the person Data is most familiar with. Although there is still some possibility for error, Data is fairly certain that Geordi's posture and facial expression are communicating minor embarrassment. An emotional tone that Counselor Troi would call 'sheepish'. The connection to traditional Earth livestock is unclear, but many aspects of the vocabulary of emotion are… idiosyncratic.

“Sorry I’m late, again” Geordi says, reaching automatically for the sandwiches Data placed by the door.

Due to his extensive past experience with similar situations, Data does not mention that he anticipated that Geordi might be late, and planned accordingly. While he initially assumed that this information would be reassuring, he has since gathered that it is not.

“Is the issue with the phase decoupler now resolved to your satisfaction?” he asks, instead.

“Mmm-hmm” Geordi says, around a large bite of sandwich, “The problem is, now that we’ve fixed the phase decoupler, the automatic diagnostics keep going off for the neutron flow regulation system. I’m pretty sure it’s a false positive, but -”

Geordi stops talking mid-sentence. A reaction with many potential causes. An especially sudden and severe spike in pain, such as when he has worn his VISOR for too long without rest. The recollection of something he has forgotten. An unusually strong emotional response.

Geordi puts down his sandwich and walks towards Data’s troublesome painting.

“Data…” he says, in a tone that most likely indicates awe, “Is this what you wanted to show me?”

“Ah. The painting.” Data says, following his friend, “I did wish to hear your opinion on it, yes.”

“These colors…” Geordi indicates the whole expanse of the painting with wide, arcing gestures, “How did you do this?”

“Ensign K’Tan recently returned from a visit to his parents on Uthon. Uthonians are able to see wavelengths of light in the near-ultraviolet range, and knowing of my interest in painting, he thoughtfully acquired several ultraviolet pigments for me.”

Geordi and Ensign K’Tan have commiserated on a number of occasions about the various inconveniences that arise from experiencing a different visible spectrum than most Federation member species.

“Can you even see them?” Geordi asks, “The colors?”

“I cannot. My own visual range is broadly similar to that of a typical human. The task was delicate, but I was able to apply the pigments based on a plan I formulated in advance, rather than by sight.”

Geordi puts a hand to his mouth. His breathing changes, becoming slower and somewhat more labored. Generally, Data considers a strong emotional response to his paintings to be a positive outcome, but this reaction seems… disproportionate.

Data gives additional consideration to the image Geordi is seeing. In the visible range of a typical human, the painting is abstract, but it somewhat resembles a complex array of parallel and branching pipes or cables. The ultraviolet element that he added most recently could be perceived as starbursts, flashes of light, visual artifacts. They could also be perceived as ruptures, leaks, or explosions. Data’s intention was to create a strong visual contrast between the image in the visible range, and the ultraviolet elements. But, taken together, the image is a portrait of a system in the midst of catastrophic collapse. 

Geordi reaches over to put a hand on Data’s shoulder. This is unusual behavior. Geordi is not typically physically demonstrative, although he has been slightly more so recently. 

"Are you okay, Data? I mean, really okay?" Geordi asks, looking intently into Data's eyes.

The question is highly imprecise. This is also unusual. Usually, when Geordi suspects for whatever reason that Data is not functioning properly, he explains his hypothesis in precise, technical terms and asks Data's permission to run a diagnostic. Data is unsure how to go about answering his friend’s question. It is vague, open ended, precisely the sort of question Data often has difficulty answering concisely.

"I am functioning well within operational parameters. At the moment, I am more concerned about you, Geordi. You seem… distraught."

"Yeah… I guess I am a little." Geordi admits, gently withdrawing his hand from Data's shoulder, "It's a really good painting, Data."

It is curious that Geordi would compliment a work that has clearly triggered a negative emotional response. But this paradox is a well-documented part of the human experience of art, one that Data has discussed at length with several individuals. Captain Picard and Counselor Troi provided the most useful explanations, although their perspectives were very different.

After a moment, Geordi appears to compose himself, "Hey, do you want to go down to Ten Forward and - Wait, why are we turning around?"

Data cocks his head slightly to one side and listens closely to the hum of the ship. Geordi is correct. The Enterprise has left warp, and the inertial dampeners are operating at a much higher level than would be necessary for a routine course correction. He's uncertain whether Geordi is simply more attentive to the various sounds the Enterprise makes, or if his VISOR provided him with additional information. Data decides to ask him about it later. 

His internal deliberations about the optimal time to broach the subject are interrupted by the chirping of his combadge.

"Picard to Lieutenant Commander Data. Report to my ready room as soon as possible."

"Acknowledged. On my way, sir."

He turns to Geordi, "Spot's scheduled feeding time is in approximately 7 minutes. If you could replicate feline nutritional supplement number 21 for her, I would consider myself in your debt."

"Yeah, okay." Geordi agrees reluctantly, remembering all too well the last time he tried to feed Spot, and the resulting trip to sickbay.

Data nods once and leaves, doing that uncanny thing he does when he's in a hurry, walking faster than most humans can run. The captain said ‘as soon as possible’, after all.

With a resigned sigh, Geordi goes to the replicator to make Spot's food. He eyes the murderous feline who is staring defiantly back at him from her perch on Data's desk. Much farther than Geordi can reach, but not so far that she can't launch herself claws first onto his face. Again. He could swear she's taunting him. Geordi calms himself with a long deep breath and replicates the cat food as quickly as he can manage, which given that it’s pretty much the only thing Data uses the food replicator for, is pretty damn fast. He sets the dish down gingerly on the ground and backs away slowly. Thankfully, Spot chooses to prioritize her dinner over Geordi’s doom.

Despite escaping Data’s quarters without bloodshed, Geordi finds himself increasingly uneasy. The captain turned the ship around. If there was an Engineering related reason, Geordi would have heard about it. Then, the captain summoned Data. Not senior crew. Not Commander Riker or Lieutenant Worf. Just Data. A deep, sinking dread settles into Geordi’s stomach. Unnameable, and yet increasingly familiar.


	2. The Possible Presence of Extenuating Circumstances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Picard has a deeply uncomfortable conversation with his second officer.

When Data arrives in the Captain's ready room, approximately 3 minutes and 25 seconds after he was summoned, the first thing he notices is that Captain Picard seems... fatigued. In theory, this is not at all unusual. It is now 2059. Captain Picard is on the Enterprise’s alpha shift, per Starfleet protocol, was scheduled to go off duty hours ago, and should now be approaching his sleep period. However, applying what Data has learned about Captain Picard while serving under him, it is slightly odd. Captain Picard is known to work long hours, and Dr. Crusher frequently admonishes him in public to be more diligent about getting the optimal amount of sleep. 

Despite these poor self care habits, Data has rarely observed the Captain looking noticeably tired. When he has, the circumstances have been grave indeed.

“Lt. Commander Data, please sit.” Picard says.

Data obeys. He makes a point of informing his commanding officers than he has no need to sit, or indeed any preference for sitting over any other position, but after a notably negative interaction at his first posting, he has learned to provide this information only once. Captain Picard was informed shortly after the incident at Farpoint. Therefore he should not be told again. Data has been told that humans, despite their lack of perfect recall, do not enjoy hearing the same information twice. While there are many obvious and notable exceptions to this rule, Data has found that making a conscious effort to reduce repetition in his social interactions has a positive effect on a number of important outcomes.

The Captain appears to be collecting his thoughts. This is a delicate point in the conversation. He does not react positively to being prompted to speak while he is thinking, but he has also reacted negatively to Data waiting in silence for him to finish. The negative reaction to the former is verbal, whereas the negative reaction to the latter is generally one of posture and facial expression. Therefore Data prefers to err on the side of giving the Captain time to consider his words. 

32.4 seconds is just past the tipping point, so Data decides to prompt the Captain, “You called for me, sir?”

“Yes, yes I did.” Picard says, conspicuously not making eye contact, “Data, there’s something I need to tell you. Bruce Maddox has been murdered.”

Murder is rare in the Federation, especially in the highly secured academic environments where Commander Maddox spent most of his adult life. And yet for some reason, Data is not surprised. He will have to examine the precise reasons why later. Death is always a complex social event, and responses to it are extremely varied. Organic lifeforms are far more likely to react negatively to Data in the wake of a death, especially an unexpected one. The careful choice of words is critical to mitigating this phenomenon.

“That is deeply regrettable, sir. Starfleet and the field of cybernetics will be poorer for his loss.” Data says after a moment of simulated consideration.

“I understand that you continued to correspond with Commander Maddox, after the hearing.” Picard says.

“Yes, sir. We had many fruitful discussions on various issues specific to Soong type androids such as myself, as well as other related topics. I considered Commander Maddox a colleague, and given the tone and frequency of our discussions, I suppose that it is not inappropriate to say that he was also a friend.”

There is a certain incongruity in calling Bruce Maddox a friend, but it is the appropriate word for a person with which one has regular and informal conversations. Data conversed regularly and informally with Bruce Maddox, therefore they were friends. Not close friends, certainly, but friends. The conclusion is both obvious and entirely unsatisfactory. In hindsight, ‘acquaintance’ might have been a better word. However, it is customary to slightly inflate one’s relationship with someone who has recently died. So perhaps his choice of words was correct, after all.

Picard shakes his head, exhales vigorously, and looks at Data as if he has just said something very unusual, “Mr. Data, you’re a far more forgiving man than I.”

Captain Picard is either complimenting Data on his forbearance, or implying that he disapproves of Data’s decision to maintain a congenial professional relationship with Commander Maddox. The latter is more likely, but the former is much simpler to address in polite conversation.

“Thank you, sir.”

Picard’s reaction confirms Data’s suspicion that his comment was meant at least partially as an admonishment. However, Data still believes he made the correct conversational choice. When a statement with multiple possible interpretations is made to or about Data, he has found that it is generally best to proceed as if the statement was meant in the kindest possible sense. Especially if his conversational partner outranks him. This tactic prevents those who are well-meaning from becoming offended, and often deflects those who are merely passively hostile. It does little to deter those who are actively hostile. Those persons are not easily deterred by any means.

After a moment, Data adds "Sir, I am uncertain how this unfortunate incident pertains to the Enterprise's change in course, or myself."

The Captain is silent for a long time, but his facial expression and posture indicate that he is extremely likely to react negatively to being prompted to speak.

Eventually, he says "Bruce Maddox was killed remotely, using a previously unknown vulnerability in Starfleet's subspace network. Once the murderer had access to the Galor IV outpost’s life support systems, he or she suffocated Commander Maddox by lowering the oxygen levels in his lab to near zero. Then, by means we don't yet understand, the murderer caused a massive structural collapse that destroyed the entire cybernetics lab. Commander Maddox's classified research and prototypes were also destroyed."

Picard looks at Data intently, as if searching for some trace of an emotional reaction. Those who know Data best often do this, with the exception of Counselor Troi. It seems that many organic lifeforms have difficulty accepting that Data is both a sentient being with a subjective experience and a distinct identity, and without emotion. Or, as Counselor Troi would say, without ‘emotion as they understand it’. 

"Furthermore," Picard says, leaning forward over his desk and fixing Data with an expression that would be extremely intimidating were Data capable of being intimidated, "In what would otherwise be a stunning coincidence, all of this was timed such that no one other than Commander Maddox was harmed."

Picard remains in his inquisitive posture and leaves a pause that Data believes is meant to invite a response of some sort. Although what response, if any, would be appropriate, is unclear.

After approximately 3.2 seconds of rapidly considering possible outcomes, Data determines that providing a straightforward summary of what was just said and it's most obvious implications, as humans often do to signal attention and understanding, is the conversational option with the lowest probability of a negative response.

"I see, sir. Therefore it can be surmised that the murderer is likely both highly technically competent and not entirely indifferent to the value of sentient life." 

"A description that aptly fits you, Mr. Data." Picard says gravely.

Data considers his response to this very carefully. He did not kill Bruce Maddox. However, he is unsure whether this is the appropriate time to deny such a charge. An early and vigorous denial could be taken as a sign of guilt, but so could the lack thereof. This situation somewhat resembles conversations he has had with authority figures in the past, in which almost any response on his part could have been interpreted as incriminating. However, it would be uncharacteristic of Captain Picard to deliberately engineer such a dilemma. 

"Yes, sir. However, my ethical subroutines would prevent me from taking such an action."

"You're not entirely incapable of lethal action.” Picard presses, “Your ethical subroutines allow you to kill, in self-defense, or defense of another. When you applied to Starfleet Academy, you told the admissions board that you believed that you could obey a lawful order even if it might result in the death of sentient beings."

Data often reflects upon the arduous process of gaining admission to Starfleet Academy. It was, in many ways, the prototypical discussion in which any response he gave would be interpreted uncharitably. A model that he consulted often in the many following conversations of this type. The matter of his ability to kill was discussed at length, with some insisting that he would be unable to do so and was thus unfit to serve, and others insisting that his theoretical ability to kill without hesitation or remorse was an unacceptable threat to the safety of his hypothetical future crewmates.

“Yes, sir. However, the provisions of my ethical subroutines which would allow me to use lethal force are broadly in line with Federation law on the subject. Where they differ, my subroutines are more stringent in their prerequisites. All of this was well established before I joined Starfleet, to the satisfaction of both Starfleet Medical and Starfleet Security. Despite this, I gather that I am a suspect in the murder of Commander Maddox.”

“You undeniably had the means and the opportunity, and Maddox’s words and actions towards you over the past twenty-some years would be more than enough motive for most beings.” Picard insists.

“I am not ‘most beings’, sir. While Commander Maddox and I had many strong disagreements, including over my admittance to Starfleet Academy and the matter of my personhood, I felt no anger or resentment towards him, as I am not capable of either.”

“He tried to dismantle you, Data!” Picard exclaims, seemingly exasperated.

“He was deterred from this course of action, sir.”

“No he wasn’t. Phillipa, that is to say Captain Louvois, was persuaded, _narrowly_ , to stop him. If it wasn’t for her good sense, he might well have gotten away with his hare-brained scheme. This is common knowledge at Starfleet Command, and you’re going to have a very difficult time indeed convincing them that you truly bore Commander Maddox no ill will.”

After the hearing, Data spent many sessions with Counselor Troi discussing his thoughts on Commander Maddox. Despite thorough discussion and questioning, they discovered no trace of the intense negative emotions that an organic lifeform might be expected to experience following a similar situation. They did, however, uncover that Data had previously unprecedentedly-strong preferences for Commander Maddox’s absence in both personal and professional settings. Counselor Troi reassured him that this was entirely understandable. 

“I see. This betrays an erroneous understanding of my fundamental nature on the part of Starfleet Command, one that I hope I will be able to correct. Am I to understand that I am not only _a_ suspect, but the primary suspect?”

Data considers the possibility of asking Counselor Troi to release her notes from those sessions to the investigators. There is an approximately 10.3% chance that doing so would resolve Starfleet Command’s apparent misunderstanding of his psychological state. He can think of no course of action with a higher probability of success.

“It would appear so. Starfleet Command has ordered me to deliver you personally to Starbase 1 for further questioning.” Picard sighs and closes his eyes for a moment, “Mr. Data. If you were responsible for this, and there were any extenuating circumstances whatsoever, you must tell me now if I am to have any hope of helping you.”

The way the Captain is speaking of this matter is troubling to Data. It is almost as if he is attempting to give the impression that he would condone, or at least understand, if Data did in fact commit the crime he is being accused of. Data is uncertain if this is due to Captain Picard’s previous open expressions of contempt for Commander Maddox, or if it is simply an attempt to persuade Data to confess. 

“I am grateful for your offer of assistance, Captain, but as I did not in fact murder Bruce Maddox, it will not be necessary. I assume that Lieutenant Anselm has already been informed of the situation?”

It is regrettable that the Enterprise has been diverted from her previous mission due to this error on the part of Starfleet Command. That regrettability would be compounded if a mishandled transfer of responsibility further compromised the efficiency of Operations. While Lieutenant Anselm is not capable of assuming Data’s full work load, he believes that she will be able to delegate his various tasks to appropriately qualified crew members and effectively supervise their work.

“Mr. Worf is speaking with her now.” Picard says, the appearance of fatigue becoming more prominent in his expression.

“If Lieutenant Worf has any difficulties transferring secondary operations control from my quarters to Lieutenant Anselm’s duty station, he should consult Lieutenant LaForge, as he is quite familiar with my personal computer arrangement, and has legal power of attorney to handle my personal information if I should become incapacitated, or… otherwise unable to access it myself.”

Captain Picard reacts negatively to that statement. He winces, almost as he would in response to physical pain. This is also regrettable, but most likely unavoidable given the topic of discussion. 

“This is a Starfleet matter, and as such will be decided at a court martial. You are entitled to a lawyer, Data. It’s a right that I suggest you exercise.”

“Thank you for your suggestion, Captain. However, I intend to cooperate fully with Starfleet’s investigation. I did not kill Bruce Maddox, but I do believe that it is my obligation to assist them in finding out who did.”

For approximately 1.3 seconds, it seems highly likely that Captain Picard will continue to argue, although as this is a somewhat novel situation a firm probability is difficult to assign. After the 1.3 seconds have elapsed, Picard’s expression shifts from one of fatigue and emotional conflict to one of resolve. He stands. Data follows suit, as per protocol.

“Lieutenant Commander Data, you are hereby relieved of duty and confined to quarters, effective immediately.” 

Data removes his combadge and places it on the Captain’s desk.

“Understood, sir.” 

“Dismissed.” Picard says stiffly.

Data leaves. As the doors of the ready room close behind him, Picard lowers himself slowly back into his office chair and rests his head in his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta Klaaraa, as always, for helping make this fic happen.


	3. Discrepancies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geordi is concerned for Data. He's not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took a little bit longer than usual! Thank you all for your patience.

The worst part, for Geordi, is how calm about it all Data is. Rationally, he knows that's silly. Data doesn't get scared like most people do. He can be aware of danger, in a way most people can't, calculating the probability of disaster to ten decimal points. He can be sympathetic and compassionate when others are afraid, though sometimes a bit awkwardly. But he doesn’t experience the actual sensation. Data has explained this to Geordi a number of times over the years, in increasingly nuanced terms. 

Usually that's a strength, whether Data thinks so or not. A strength that Geordi has leaned on more than once. But right now…

Data is acting like nothing's wrong. Geordi's dropped by his quarters a couple of times, and Data has received him politely, but refused to talk about the case, insisting instead on continuing their previous conversation about painting and the neutron flow management system. It's as if Data is on one of those Starfleet mandated vacations he always ends up taking at the end of the year because he never manages to spend all his leave. As if he’s not accused of premeditated murder. As if he’s not literally hurtling towards Judgement at warp 9. And Geordi hasn’t said anything, because it’s not Data’s job to reassure _him_ right now, but it scares the hell out of him.

And that fear follows him. It follows him to work. Keeping the Enterprise humming at warp 9 is hard work. He's on his feet all day making little corrections, keeping the warp field stable. The Enterprise gets a little temperamental at higher speeds. Usually, Geordi wouldn't mind at all. Coaxing a gorgeous machine like the Enterprise into giving her very best is what he lives for. But knowing where they're heading just sucks all the joy out of it. The fact that he keeps having to field questions from Data’s subordinates about how to make this or that work properly doesn’t help.

By the time Geordi goes off duty, he feels like absolute crap. The fear follows him back to his quarters, more intense for the lack of distraction. Gnawing at his insides. He tries to reassure himself. This isn’t the first time Data’s had to deal with bullshit from Starfleet Command. He’s always gotten through it before. And Captain Picard probably has a plan, too, right? He’s always fielding nonsense from the higher ups. But the admiralty doesn’t usually have this kind of ammunition, either. 

When his attempts to reassure himself fail, Geordi decides to try and distract himself again. And it works, kind of. He takes his VISOR off for a little while and has the computer read his messages to him. One’s from his mom. He thinks about writing her back, but he’s not sure what to say. They have a standing agreement not to talk about his friendship with Data. She’s never approved. But that’s 90% of what he wants to talk about right now. He tries listening to music, and that works for awhile too, one of his favorite composers has released a new album. It’s pretty good. But he can’t stop wondering what Data would think. In theory, he could ask. Comm him, or even drop by his quarters again. But then he’d have to face Data’s apparent indifference to his impending doom, again. Geordi doesn’t think he can handle that right now.

Suddenly, he doesn’t want to be in his quarters. He feels restless, cooped up. The automatic diagnostic system is still constantly complaining about the neutron flow regulation network. Maybe the problem will be easier to solve in Ten Forward, with a nice cocktail in his hand. He reaches for his VISOR. He doesn’t really _need_ it for something like this. Geordi knows the way to Ten Forward well enough to make it over there. He learned how to get around by touch and memory when he was a little kid, and he takes the VISOR off often enough not to lose the knack for it. But people get uncomfortable, seeing him like that. Seeing his clouded eyes, seeing the attachment points for his VISOR. 

It probably wouldn’t be the best thing for one of his subordinates to see him orienting himself by putting a hand to the bulkhead, or asking the computer to remind him what deck he’s on. At best they’d be awkward around him the next day. At worst they might try to ‘help’. It’s fine. Geordi spent most of the morning with his VISOR off, and he hasn’t been working overtime lately, so his head isn’t hurting too badly. A couple hours more won’t push him over the edge.

Ten Forward is unusually crowded. A lot of people are at loose ends right now. Especially the science staff. Dozens of projects have been scrapped or postponed indefinitely because of the Enterprise's sudden change in course. Geordi finds himself looking for Guinan. She isn’t at the bar. It doesn’t take him long to spot her. Her aura is so vivid and striking, extending uncannily a few inches or sometimes even feet beyond her body. She’s at a table on the far side of the room with a distraught young ensign. Geordi has to force himself not to stare at the way that her aura touches and synchronizes with that of the young ensign. The way that the hot, bright signatures of distress begin to fade as the ensign confides in the Listener.

Geordi settles into his accustomed spot at the bar and orders a Saurian Sunrise. It’s a little sweeter than what he usually orders, but he’s not trying to impress anyone with his good taste tonight. Apparently the version made with real alcohol kicks like a mule, but he’s never had it and he doesn’t plan to. Geordi tried alcohol once at the academy. The upperclassmen told him to be careful, to go slow, but he was too young and stupid to listen. He landed himself in the infirmary and swore off the stuff forever.

Guinan catches Geordi’s eye from across the room. She settles the ensign she was talking to with a touch to the shoulder and the offer of a drink and begins to head his way. Geordi tries not to think too hard about what it means that she’s prioritizing him over someone who was on the brink of tears five minutes ago. But before she can make her way over to him, Worf appears behind him from who-knows-where. For such a large and imposing man, Worf can be disturbingly stealthy when he wants to be.

“Commander LaForge. I have been looking for you.” Worf rumbles.

Geordi turns around to face him and tries to muster up a smile, "I'm not a hard man to find. Why didn't you comm me?"

"This is not a matter for the comms." Worf says gravely, "May I join you?"

Geordi's heart sinks, "Yeah, sure."

Worf takes the seat beside him. Geordi pretends not to notice the slow disapproving look Worf gives his drink. To hell with what he thinks. Some days are Saurian Sunrise days, and today is one of them.

"I have been reviewing Starfleet Intelligence's official report on the murder of Commander Maddox," Worf says.

"Yeah?" Geordi asks, taking what he hopes is only a mildly despondent sip of his drink, "Find anything?"

"Indeed." Worf says, scanning the room surreptitiously before he speaks further, "The report makes certain assumptions about the capabilities of the perpetrator. Assumptions I think may be ill-founded. I would appreciate your input."

Worf hands Geordi a PADD. On it are exquisitely detailed schematics of the cybernetics lab at Galor IV. As it was the day of the murder. Geordi doesn’t ask if he’s cleared to be seeing this. He doesn’t want to know the answer. The dozens of parallel and interwoven systems that ran through the lab are laid out in bright colors on the screen. It’s actually kind of beautiful. And familiar. There are differences, too, things that stick out. Geordi took classes on space station engineering at the Academy, but he’s only ever actually worked on starships. And some parts of the outpost at Galor IV are even more advanced than the Enterprise.

With a tap, the screen shows the… incident. The murder, Geordi supposes he should call it, but from this perspective it doesn’t look like a murder. It doesn’t even look like sabotage. It looks like a sequence of spontaneous malfunctions occurring one after the other. Life support systems have been known to erroneously change atmospheric conditions. Sometimes with lethal effects. Comm systems sometimes go down. Sensor nets sometimes develop blind spots. But not all at the same time, with all the backups going down too. And the collapse…

It’s tempting to think of it as a cave-in, but the tiny moon the outpost is burrowed into only barely has its own gravity. Something like .001 G. Not enough to make it spherical, not even enough to solidify the icy gravel into something like rock. Certainly not enough to crush a durasteel structure built to withstand high energy disrupter fire. 

“Have they checked the artificial gravity system?" Geordi asks idly, as if this was just another engineering problem.

And it is. Or it should be. Whoever _actually_ killed Bruce Maddox is still out there, and could strike again. It’s his obligation to help bring that person to justice. The sinking feeling in Geordi’s stomach is getting worse. He doesn’t want to think about this anymore.

“I don’t believe so. I’ll relay your suggestion to the investigation team at Galor IV. However, that is not the matter on which I wanted your opinion.” 

Geordi knows that. He wishes he didn’t know, but he does.

“Oh?” he asks, “What did you want to ask?”

“Currently, the general sentiment among the investigators is that, due to the extreme technical proficiency required, _only_ Lieutenant Commander Data could have committed this crime. Do you feel that is accurate?”

“What the hell kind of question is that supposed to be, Worf?!” Geordi snaps, “Are you asking if I think he did it? Because no, I don’t. I don’t think he could. I really don’t."

Geordi thinks but does not say, 'If he was ever going to-' but he doesn't finish that thought. Not even in his head.

Geordi puts the padd down and settles his head in his hands. He’s starting to get a headache. It has nothing to do with the VISOR.

After that nasty business with Maddox. The hearing. The ugly accusation that Data was property. After Data won that painfully narrow victory. That mealy mouthed ruling that refused to state that he was a citizen of the Federation, or even a person necessarily, but stipulated that he wasn’t merely a thing to be disposed of. Instead, he’s an… important thing, a thing with the right to continue existing, even if that’s not convenient at the moment. Like a major river on a populated world, or a culturally significant mountain. A culturally significant mountain that happens to wear a Starfleet uniform. 

After that, Geordi asked Data what he would have done if things had gone differently. If the ruling had been less favorable. And Data told him what he told Captain Picard, when he first got the news that he wouldn’t be allowed to resign to avoid Maddox’s experiment.

‘I can only hope that Commander Maddox is more capable than it would appear’ he said, and before the Captain had interrupted him, Data told Geordi that he was planning to go back to his quarters and set his affairs in order.

Data and Geordi have known each other for years. Data had never, ever, lied to Geordi before. Geordi has seen Data struggle with even rudimentary social lies. Not just computationally, but ethically. Geordi always assumes that if Data says something, it is precisely accurate to the best of his knowledge. But when Data told him that story, Geordi had dearly wished that his friend was lying to him. That there was a Plan B. Escape, sabotage, maybe a little bit of mutiny. Something. Because the idea of Data going silently to his probable death terrified him.

Just like it terrifies him now. Just because Bruce Maddox is dead doesn’t mean that there aren’t a dozen more cyberneticists in the wings who look at Data like they’re medical students and he’s their first replicated cadaver. And if Data is found guilty… A major river can be dammed or rerouted if it floods unpredictably and people die. Controlled demolitions can be done on even the most sacred of mountains to prevent deadly rockslides. And some of the brass at Starfleet Command have wanted to disassemble Data for years. Maddox was just the first to convince them that he could do it without destroying him in the process.

“Commander LaForge.” Worf interrupts him before his mind can spiral into the worst of the worse case scenarios, “I am not asking if you believe that Commander Data committed this crime. I'm asking if Starfleet Intelligence is correct in their assessment of the cognitive capabilities necessary to commit it."

"I'm… honestly not sure." Geordi says, taking his head out of his hands, "It's very impressive. In retrospect, I can see how… whoever it was, did it. But I'm not sure I would've been able to pull it off. Information systems have never been my specialty."

"As a purely technical matter, could Data have done it?" Worf asks.

"Of course he could." Geordi admits wearily, "And… I have to admit that this does look a lot like his work."

Worf makes a low thoughtful hum, "Do you think it's accurate to say that _only_ Commander Data could have done this?"

Geordi shakes his head, "Absolutely not. Data is… brilliant. Uniquely brilliant, even. A genius. And he can work faster and with a lower error rate than just about any organic engineer. Except maybe the Binar. But he's not… godlike. I can follow his work, even if he does have to slow down for me sometimes."

Geordi gestures at the padd, "A talented hacker with a good computer could pull this off. A human might have trouble with the timing, but it's not impossible."

"I see." Worf says, "So it would seem that someone with extensive technical expertise has gone to great lengths to make it appear that Commander Data has committed murder."

The sinking feeling in Geordi's gut recedes just a little. He takes a long hard look at Worf.

"So you don't think he did it?" 

"Of course not." Worf says vehemently, "I am not as… close with Data as you are, but I have served by his side for years now. I consider him a friend as well as a comrade and I am certain he would never do such a thing."

"I… That means a lot, Worf." Geordi says.

Worf looks around the room again. They’ve been talking for awhile. Ten Forward’s emptied out quite a bit. Guinan is watching them quietly from the other end of the bar.

“There are certain… irregularities in Starfleet’s official investigation. Irregularities I intend to look into. I may require your assistance.” Worf says, after a moment.

“Absolutely.” Geordi replies instantly, “Whatever you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to Klaaraa. This chapter especially benefited from your advice.


	4. People Who Might Want to Hurt Bruce Maddox pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worf goes through the long list of Bruce Maddox's enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some heavy misgendering from here on out, folks. Be advised.

Worf has not slept well since he learned that Bruce Maddox was murdered. The fact that Maddox is dead is not the problem. Not at all. Not for Worf, anyway. Or, he suspects, most of his crewmates. The problem is how it was done. A person or persons unknown penetrated the deepest, most secure levels of Starfleet’s computer infrastructure. The entire computer system on the outpost at Galor IV is being considered compromised. Whoever murdered Bruce Maddox now presumably has access to all the highly classified research that was done there. Was. Past tense. They’ll almost certainly have to decommission the outpost. Even more troublingly, the vulnerability that the murderer exploited is not yet fully understood. Which means that they could strike again, killing anyone who depends on a Starfleet life support system.

That is a problem.

The official report on the security breach is also a problem. Usually, Starfleet Intelligence is thorough. Even to a fault. In the past, it has made them slow. Sometimes fatally so. The official report was filed less than 24 hours after Maddox’s death. That is not slow. Its threat analysis only seriously considers one possible perpetrator: Data. That is not thorough. A purely digital document should not have an odor. But this one does. Worf’s conversation with Lt. Commander LaForge confirms it. The report stinks. But of what, Worf is not yet sure.

The Enterprise will arrive at Starbase 001 in approximately 48 hours. That’s how long Worf has to figure it out.

He begins with Maddox’s enemies. There are a lot of them. Bruce Maddox was not a popular man. Most of his feuds were petty, parochial things. Disputes about the use of lab space. Complaints about his teaching skills, or apparent lack thereof. Several mildly disgruntled former assistants. Trifles. Not the sort of thing that generally drives people to commit murder. Then again, maybe Worf shouldn’t assume that the murderer is a rational actor. Technically competent, yes. But not necessarily rational.

Maddox's more serious enemies fall into three categories. Those who resented him for his access to Starfleet resources and his reluctance to share information. They're by far the largest group, but also the least vitriolic. There are those who opposed Maddox's work on ethical grounds, a much smaller school of thought mostly centered around Professor T'Prem of the Vulcan Science Academy and her seminal work _The Avoidance of Moral Hazard in the Application of Cybernetics_. Apparently, by Vulcan standards, her criticisms of Maddox were pointed to the point of impropriety. Out of curiosity, Worf reads some of the relevant passages. He reads closely. He reads diligently. He does not see it.

The smallest, but most vitriolic group are those who were outraged by Captain Louvois' ruling that Data is not property, and blame Maddox for his part in bringing it about. The most notable of these being K'Than of Axanar, who immediately after the hearing, wrote what to Worf seems like a more than slightly unhinged letter to the editors of _Applied Cybernetics_ accusing Maddox of 'smothering the field of cybernetics in its cradle through his incompetence.' The argument is difficult to follow, but the meat of it seems to be that had Maddox's 'procedure' been less half baked, Data likely would have complied, and there would have been no hearing. No 'needlessly restrictive' precedent. K’Than of Axanar disappeared from Federation space shortly before the publication of his letter.

K'Than would be a prime suspect if not for the small matter of his stunning mediocrity. Neither his publications nor the testimony of his colleagues give any indication that he would be capable of the masterful sabotage that killed Bruce Maddox.

The problem is that all of Maddox’s serious, long-term enemies have alibis. K’Than is incapable. Professor T’Prem is a committed pacifist who lives in seclusion at a remote monastery. And none of the less notable people in their camps have any evidence connecting them to the crime. 

On a hunch, Worf requests the security files from this year’s Federation Cybernetics Conference. It was the last place where Maddox interacted publicly with his colleagues. With his clearance, Worf should be able to access video records of everything that took place there. The operative word in that sentence is _should._ Of the seven day conference, only the first three days have complete surveillance data. On the fourth day, unexplained outages started occuring, spreading throughout the conference center. By the sixth day, the conference center’s surveillance system was almost completely compromised.

Infuriatingly, the woefully incompetent outfit that calls itself conference security knew about the outages and did nothing. According to the more than slightly intimidated young noncom Worf gets on subspace, the cyberneticists ‘always do that’. So they can protect their vaunted trade secrets. So they can distribute and consume illicit substances without consequences. Because they know how to do it, and they know they can get away with it. The idea of such a thing being tolerated infuriates Worf. He narrowly defeats the urge to growl at the screen. It would be counterproductive to frighten his source at the conference center, and Worf has been asked a number of times to refrain from growling on the bridge. 

Thankfully, conference security is not completely useless. They’re able to provide him with their incident reports. Apparently, Maddox filed two security reports during the conference. They were dismissed and sealed by conference security shortly after being filed. Worf’s security clearance is more than sufficient to unseal them. They’re both against Dr. Lewis Zimmerman, for assault. 

Worf reads the reports. They are not very detailed. Both reports were dismissed in the preliminary stages. Stardate 236119.2: Commander Maddox filed a report on behalf of Andy Hegel following an incident involving the purposeful disruption of Mr. Hegel’s neuroprosthesis. Report dismissed at the request of Andy Hegel. Worf frowns at the name and honorific. It would appear that Hegel has succeeded in changing her name and legal sex. Worf is not surprised. When she was on the Enterprise, she was extremely insistent that she was a man. Counselor Troi agreed with her, and now, apparently, so does Federation law. Worf usually defers to Troi on psychological matters. But in this case he has his doubts.

He reads on. Stardate 236126.9: Commander Maddox called Medical after waking, claiming that he had been poisoned. When asked who he thought might have poisoned him, Commander Maddox identified Dr. Zimmerman. Medical examination revealed that Commander Maddox was suffering from severe alcohol intoxication. On condition of anonymity, several witnesses confirmed that alcohol was served the night previous and that Commander Maddox partook. Report dismissed. 

Worf frowns. Alcohol has been known to cause amnesia in humans. Most humans who consume alcohol take care to moderate their dose so as to avoid this. It’s not impossible, or even implausible, that Maddox might have simply overindulged. On the other hand, there _are_ substances that could mimic the effects of alcohol poisoning. Some of which leave the bloodstream very quickly. If Zimmerman is the murderer, this might have been an unsuccessful first attempt. Maybe he got the dosage wrong. Maybe Commander Maddox was meant to be found dead in his room on the morning of his big presentation.

Worf did not consider Zimmerman a suspect before. He’s a holographer, not a cyberneticist. He’d have little use for the secrets Maddox was supposedly hoarding. He has a comfortable, well-equipped lab on Jupiter Station with access to the Federation’s most advanced computers. He’d have no reason to envy Maddox’s access to Starfleet resources. And if Dr. Zimmerman has ever bothered himself with ethical concerns, he’s kept it remarkably quiet. He has no reason to want to hurt Commander Maddox. Except for simply disliking the man. From Worf’s own limited experience with Maddox, that might be enough. And Zimmerman is certainly capable of pulling it off. He likely had access to a direct data link with the Galor IV outpost.

The fact that none of this was included in Starfleet’s official report only adds to the stench coming off that document.

It could be nothing. The incident with Andy Hegel could be a misunderstanding. Hegel isn’t easy to deal with. Worf knows that from personal experience. The ‘poisoning’ could be a coincidence. It might also be a coincidence that the conference center’s surveillance system began to fail shortly after Dr. Zimmerman arrived. But Worf does not believe in coincidences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Klaaraa, as always.


	5. Dr. Lewis Zimmerman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worf gets Dr. Lewis Zimmerman on subspace. It goes about as well as you would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the opinions of Worf are not necessarily those of management. He's such a fun swirl of wholesome goodness and un-examined bullshit. It's all just mixed in together in there.

It is no simple matter to get a direct line to Dr. Lewis Zimmerman. In the course of his duties, Worf had made contact with deep cover operatives embedded in hostile worlds, evading active surveillance at deadly peril. He has yet to have a comms experience quite as frustrating as this. This simple subspace call, to Jupiter Station, perhaps the most robustly networked facility in the Federation. The infuriating part is that almost all of the administrative friction he encounters is absolutely needless. The result of Zimmerman leveraging his clearance, the importance of his work, and a perverse but comprehensive understanding of Starfleet regulations, to make it as difficult as possible to contact him. Because he doesn't like people, and because he can. Worf would not tolerate such behavior, were he in a position to discipline Zimmerman. Unfortunately, he is not.

Starfleet Intelligence has released a more comprehensive version of their report. Worf reads it while he waits. It suffers from many of the same flaws as the original. The same myopia. The same unfounded certainty that Commander Data _must_ have committed the crime. But it does include a more detailed description of the mechanics of the attack. With characteristic slowness, Starfleet Intelligence is inching their way towards finding the point of vulnerability. The details of the report are too technical for Worf, but they might well hold some crucial clue. After a moment's thought about how to proceed, Worf uses a triple encrypted internal channel to send the report to Geordi's work station in Engineering. Hopefully he can make more sense of it.

It takes Worf the better part of an hour to connect to Zimmerman's office. But that's not the end of it. No. He also has to deal with Zimmerman's assistant. Another needless obstacle. 

Worf's first impression of Zimmerman's assistant is that of an overly friendly human woman. Bright as in cheerful, but not bright as in intelligent.

"Hello, Lieutenant Worf!" she says, in an aggressively friendly tone that sets Worf's teeth on edge.

The implied familiarity bothers him too. He's not unaccustomed to being recognized. It's an unavoidable consequence of being the only Klingon in Starfleet. But usually people allow him to introduce himself, even though they already know who he is. It’s the polite thing to do.

"Good evening..." Worf says, leaving a long pause for the woman to introduce herself. She just stares at him with her broad, vacant smile.

He presses on, "Could you please patch me through to Dr. Zimmerman?"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Zimmerman isn't accepting calls right now," Zimmerman’s assistant says.

Worf focuses on his breath, on maintaining its regularity as rage begins to build in his hearts , "Please tell him that it is regarding an urgent Security matter."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Zimmerman isn't accepting calls right now." The assistant repeats, in exactly the same tone and cadence as before.

It’s at this point that Worf begins to become well and truly… irritated.

"I believe that Dr. Zimmerman may have information regarding the murder of Bruce Maddox. Patch me through to him _immediately_." Worf growls.

Thankfully, Beta shift has taken the Bridge for the evening and none of them have the rank or the temerity to say anything about it.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Zimmerman isn't-" the assistant twitches alarmingly and makes an absolutely inhuman screeching sound, "I'm sorry, doctor - I'm sorry - I'm - I'm - I'm -"

The sound of a human male cursing loudly comes through from off screen.

"Computer, deactivate Personal Assistant Hologram and begin auto-diagnostics." the voice says, and the assistant disappears into thin air.

A hologram. Worf was talking to a hologram. This development does nothing to improve his mood.

An unremarkable looking human male comes into view. He's wearing a Starfleet uniform without rank or insignia with a white lab coat on top. Worf is unsure why a holographer would need a lab coat, but that's far from the most pressing matter at hand right now.

"What the hell do you want? Whatever it is, I hope that it's important enough to justify crashing my assistant, but I sincerely doubt it."

"Dr. Zimmerman, I presume." Worf says, fighting the urge to grit his teeth.

"Yes, yes," Dr. Zimmerman waves his hands dismissively, "And you're that Klingon they let join Starfleet. Ensign Wolf, right?"

"Lieutenant Worf, actually." Worf corrects, "And as I said to your… assistant, I have some questions for you regarding the death of Bruce Maddox."

"Oh." Zimmerman rolls his eyes, "Bruce Fucking Maddox. Of course. Go ahead. It’s not like I’m working on groundbreaking technology that will transform Starfleet, or anything."

Worf raises his eyebrows, "Pardon me for saying so, Doctor, but you don't seem especially distraught about Commander Maddox's death."

"That's because I'm not." Zimmerman says curtly, "Maddox was arrogant, selfish, and just about the biggest jerk in the Quadrant."

The irony of Dr. Zimmerman calling _anyone_ , even Bruce Maddox, a jerk, is not lost on Worf.

Zimmerman continues, "It's not exactly a surprise, either. Everybody knew that he was going to, as they say ‘bite it’ sooner or later. If you play with fire long enough, eventually you’ll get burned..."

"In what way was Commander Maddox 'playing with fire'"? Worf asks.

Zimmerman looks at Worf as if he's exceedingly stupid. It's a look Worf knows very well, "His insistence on continually antagonizing the android. Data. Ever since he examined it before they let it into Starfleet Academy, Bruce was obsessed. He couldn’t let it go. He pestered Starfleet Command with proposals to let him take Data apart for _twenty years._ Even after he embarrassed himself in court, he was _convinced_ that he was going to convince it to volunteer to let him disassemble it.”

Worf knows that he should let Zimmerman’s casual disrespect for Data go, at least for now. He knows that calling him on it is counterproductive to the interrogation. And yet.

“Lieutenant Commander Data is a ‘he’, _not_ an ‘it’” Worf insists.

“Whatever.” Zimmerman says dismissively, “Anyway, I always thought Bruce was pushing _him_ too hard. The android says he doesn’t have emotions, and that’s all well and good, but… Well, we know he can kill. Has killed, a couple of times. I know I’m not the only one who got shown _that_ telemetry.”

The three occasions on which Data had taken a sentient life are extensively documented and unimpeachably justifiable. That has not stopped some people in Starfleet from being disquieted by the extreme efficiency with which Data carried out his duty. It’s an issue Worf has faced as well, and far more often, due to his choice of specialty. 

“And then there’s that nasty business with the failed prototype/evil twin situation.” Zimmerman shudders slightly.

"I see." Worf says, remembering all too well the havoc that Lore wrought, "I have some questions for you about what transpired during the Federation Cybernetics Conference. It would appear that someone tampered with the conference center's surveillance system."

Zimmerman is clearly trying to restrain the self-satisfied smirk spreading across his face, but he is not doing a very good job.

"Really? How unfortunate." Zimmerman says smugly, "I barely saw Data this year, if that's what you wanted to ask. I thought it was a little odd at the time. He usually makes himself available to just about anyone. But this time he pretty much disappeared after the talk on sub-micron matrix transfer. Turns out he was holed up in his room working on his…"

Zimmerman pauses for a moment, looking for the right word.

"Daughter." Worf says firmly.

"Yeah, sure." Zimmerman shrugs, "Anyway, as far as I know, they only talked a couple of times this year. During that whole ‘assault’ nonsense and right after Bruce’s lab rat vomited on him."

"Pardon me?" Worf says, a little taken aback, “Mr. Hegel vomited on Commander Maddox?”

Worf hesitates briefly with the honorific, but decides to defer to what's listed on Hegel's identification documents. It is the nature of the security profession that one must sometimes enforce rules and laws that one disagrees with. After Worf’s stern correction about the proper way to refer to Data, Zimmerman seems inclined to take his lead.

"Oh yeah. It was _hilarious_ . Maddox was trying to feed his lab rat at lunch, and he just…" Zimmerman mimes vomiting, "Puked _all over him._ "

"Was he ill?" Worf asks.

It would not surprise him to learn that Maddox’s handiwork had other side effects, and nausea is a well-known symptom of brain damage in humans.

Zimmerman shakes his head, "Hell if I know. Can't have been too bad if he was, he was… around later. Data walked him back to his room to clean up, and Maddox skulked off on his own."

"They exchanged words, Commander Data and Commander Maddox?" Worf asks.

"I guess.” Zimmerman shrugs, “I didn't hear it."

Worf tries to form a coherent timeline of events from Zimmerman’s disorganized ramblings, "And was this before or after Commander Maddox accused you of assaulting Andy Hegel?"

"After." Zimmerman laughs, "I still can't believe Bruce called security on me. The lab rat thought it was nonsense, too, you know. Refused to press charges."

"What, precisely, did you do to Mr. Hegel that Commander Maddox disapproved of?" Worf asks The report had been unclear.

“It’s a bit complicated.” Zimmerman says, condescendingly.

“Try me.” Worf replies, allowing a little bit of danger to seep into his voice.

“Uh, well. Um. Maddox was trying to talk up his implant.” Zimmerman says, clearly flustered, “It wasn’t enough for him that the damn thing worked, he had to, uh, gild the lily, as it were.”

“How so?”

“He kept saying that the side effects were ‘minimal’” Zimmerman continues, “And I knew that was bullshit, because a positronic-to-organic interface takes up _space_. There’s no way they didn’t cut some of the original brain tissue out to make room.”

“I see.” Worf says.

He wonders how much Hegel knew about Maddox, before agreeing to the procedure. Worf knows that Counselor Troi had difficulty getting Hegel to consent to a mild sedative. He can’t imagine how the recalcitrant youth was persuaded to submit to brain surgery.

“I argued with him about it for a while, but he just kept _denying_ it. Talking around it.” Zimmerman says, the contempt plain on his face, “So I popped the unit right off the kid’s head. Called his bluff.”

It’s clear that Zimmerman doesn’t see anything at all wrong with the act he’s confessing to, and Worf attempting to explain why he should, would be a waste of both their time. 

“Mr. Hegel’s neuroprosthesis is removable?” Worf asks, instead.

“Oh yes.” Zimmerman confirms eagerly, “Well, the positronic part is. It has to be, for maintenance. Positronic networks are horribly unstable. You have to be an obsessive idiot savant like Noonien Soong, or a rank plagiarist like Bruce Maddox to make them work at all.”

“And what happened when you removed the device?”

"Without the implant, Bruce's lab rat is stone cold aphasic.” Zimmerman says with evident glee, “Couldn't even understand his old Earth dialect anymore. The android tried."

Worf imagines that. He imagines Data speaking Andy Hegel's dead language to him, and finding him completely insensible. Worf knows that Data contributed to Maddox’s work on Hegel. He wonders if Data knew how aggressively Maddox was proceeding, and at what cost.

"Mr. Hegel recovered after his prosthesis was replaced?" Worf asks.

"Yeah. Took a minute, but yeah. He was fine again." Zimmerman seems less enthused by this part of the story, "I saw the pre-op brain scans. Given how messed up his brain was already, it probably wasn’t the worst trade-off. But Bruce shouldn't have tried to pretend it was all neat and tidy."

“And Mr. Hegel was not displeased with you?”

“Not at all. Right after I took it off, once he realized he couldn’t understand anyone, he started laughing. He even came to thank me, the next night.”

"Mr. Hegel approached you of his own volition?"

Zimmerman’s discomfort intensifies notably, “Yes, some time after 2100 on the fifth night of the conference.”

“And what did he want?” Worf asks, absolutely certain that Hegel had a purpose other than expressing gratitude.

“Well…” Zimmerman hesitates, “As you probably know, alcohol was served that night.”

“I see.” Worf says, making no effort to hide the judgement in his voice.

“It wasn’t like that!” Zimmerman insists, “I know that he, she, whatever, is technically a woman. But she isn’t exactly much to look at, you know?”

It is… interesting, to say the least, that Zimmerman’s mind immediately turned to such matters. Hegel has a history of prostitution. Perhaps he offered Dr. Zimmerman sexual favors? Zimmerman’s reaction suggests that he refused. Or at least that he will continue to insist that he refused.

“Did you provide Andy Hegel with alcohol?” Worf asks.

“No! Of course not!” Zimmerman says.

Worf stares him down.

“... but I may have told him where he could find some.” Zimmerman admits sheepishly.

Worf sighs. Later, assuming he doesn’t find evidence of anything more severe, he will write a full report on Dr. Zimmerman’s conduct at the conference. He will emphasize Zimmerman’s severe recklessness and general poor judgement. He will recommend that Dr. Zimmerman be disciplined. This report will be read, considered, and analyzed by the proper authorities. Nothing will come of it. Worf can see all of this clearly, as clearly as he can see Zimmerman’s face. 

“Thank you, Doctor, for your… cooperation.” Worf grinds out, “I trust that if I have further questions, I will be able to reach you more easily.”

Worf cuts the connection before Zimmerman can answer, his closing remark was _not_ a question. He checks the chronometer and decides to leave the Bridge. Beta shift is almost over. Worf’s own duty shift begins in a little less than 10 hours. According to Starfleet regulations, he should rest for at least 6 of those. That isn’t happening. But if he’s going to disobey regulations, he’d prefer not to do so flagrantly. Unlike some people.

Zimmerman’s untouchability only goes so far. He can get away with substance use. He can probably also get away with low-level substance distribution. He can’t get away with murder. That is, not if Worf can prove it. If he even did it. Zimmerman seems like a far less likely candidate now than he did before Worf spoke with him. Zimmerman’s evident contempt for Maddox does not seem strong enough to drive him to murder. Nor does Zimmerman seem adept enough at deception to give such a nuanced false impression.

In the turbolift, Worf does some quick calculations. The Enterprise will arrive at Starbase 001 in approximately 22 hours. More than half his time is already up. It’s difficult to estimate how close he is to completing any investigation. There’s no accounting for hunches and sudden inspirations. But in his gut, Worf knows he’s far less than halfway to the bottom of this one.

He needs help.

“Lieutenant Worf to Lieutenant Commander LaForge. Please meet me in my quarters at your earliest convenience. I require your assistance.”

Geordi answers immediately, “I’m on my way. LaForge out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Klaaraa, for giving me a much needed poke to get this done, and for helping me clarify my word choice and punctuation.


	6. What Geordi Can't See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worf and Geordi watch some surveillance footage from the Cybernetics Convention. Worf comes to an unexpected conclusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been forever. It took longer than I expected to recover from my top surgery, but I have and I'm back and ready to write really obscure dialectical Star Trek fanfiction.

Before Worf can get to his quarters, Geordi hails him again.

“Would you mind coming over to my place instead? Dr. Crusher might actually kill me if I put my VISOR back on again today, and I’ve got things set up here to let me work without it.” he sounds more apologetic than embarrassed.

There’s no need for either.

“Of course,” Worf replies, and quickly makes his way there.

The first thing that Worf notices about Geordi’s quarters is that they are dark. Which makes good sense, it’s night-time for the Alpha shift, and unless told otherwise, the ship’s computer automatically dims and brightens the lights in crew quarters according to their duty schedules and the brightness and spectra of their home stars. Without his VISOR, Geordi is blind, and with it he can see quite well in the dark. At least on the Enterprise, where there’s a power conduit or isolinear chip deck behind every bulkhead and gravity plating on every deck. Geordi would have no reason to alter that setting. 

“Computer, apply Worf’s lighting preferences to my quarters.” Geordi says, and the room is bathed in a pleasant far-red light, “Sorry to leave you standing in the dark, I’m waist deep in the report you sent me from Starfleet Intelligence.”

Geordi’s workstation is odd looking. The screen, if one could call it that, is a semicircle of angled, interlocking panels a little narrower than the width of Geordi’s wingspan. It’s set into a large, obviously custom made chest of drawers. The design aesthetic reminds Worf of Data’s quarters. Perhaps he and Geordi assisted each other in decorating their quarters. One of Data’s paintings hangs on the wall. A gift, most likely. It’s odd, seeing a painting in a blind man’s room, but Worf supposes he can see it as well as anything else, when he has his VISOR on. The painting reminds Worf of fresh intestines, still streaked with fat and blood, neatly coiled into a rectangular container. It’s vaguely appetizing. He wonders what it looks like to Geordi.

“What have you found?” he asks.

Geordi turns his head towards the sound of Worf’s voice. He looks odd, without his VISOR. Worf has only seen him this way a few times before, always in moments of distress or pain. He looks far more at ease, here in his quarters. As much at ease as can be expected anyway, given the circumstances.

“Whoever’s trying to frame Data did one hell of a job,” Geordi says, grimacing as he admits it, “The further I get into the Galor IV attack, the more it looks like his work.”

Worf considers this for a moment, and says, “That would suggest that the actual perpetrator has a comprehensive understanding of Data's capabilities."

"Yeah." Geordi says, but his conviction seems lacking.

"I have come into possession of a collection of corrupted surveillance files. Can you recover them?" Worf asks.

Geordi pauses to consider, “It depends. It’s not usually my thing, but I can give it a try.”

Worf executes the data transfer. Geordi reaches for the file, at the far left corner of his workstation, expands it, and runs his fingers across the screen to examine it. The way his fingers flit from place to place, sometimes lingering, catches Worf’s eye. Geordi’s motions are quick and practiced. He moves as fast, or faster, as a sighted man. Worf almost wants to ask how it all works. The harsh, blue light of the Bridge often gives him headaches. He perseveres through the pain, of course, but doing so is distracting and diminishes his focus. It would be much more efficient if he could rest his eyes and work at the same time. Perhaps he will ask about it, at a more opportune time.

“Will it disturb you if I review the surviving footage?” Worf asks.

Geordi shakes his head, “Nah. Go ahead.”

Worf starts with a list of the uncorrupted files. By default, the computer has sorted them by time and location. The footage from the first three days of the conference is almost completely intact. The file corruption begins at 0300 on the fourth day, spreading from the conference center’s docking area. It does not escape Worf’s notice that the corruption neatly obscures every single occasion Dr. Lewis Zimmerman should be on camera, from the moment his ship landed until his departure a few days later. Worf grits his teeth, ever so slightly, for just a moment. A brief concession to his frustration. Then he moves on. There’s work to be done.

There’s still the first three days of footage to work with. The logical thing to do would be to follow Bruce Maddox, but Worf allows his instincts to guide him. He follows Data instead, backwards from the point of corruption. At 0300 on the fourth day of the conference, Data was in his room, like almost all of the attendees. He was not sleeping, of course. He was working. Not at the computer terminal, but at an engineer’s workstation that Worf is certain is not part of the standard furnishings for the conference center’s guest rooms. 

There was communal workspace available for the conference, equipped with everything a cyberneticist might need. At that odd hour, Data would have had his pick of space, tools, and parts. It would have been time-consuming to request a workstation for his room, and difficult to move one from the workspace. Data went to some trouble to ensure he could work in private. 

At 0300, Data was working on a device scarcely larger than one of Worf’s fists, his scalp sundered open to reveal the blinking lights and nested machinery beneath, with neatly coiled wires extending his head to the device on the time, the lights on both blinking with the same gentle rhythm. Worf knows that ‘device’ is not the correct word for what would eventually become the brain of Data’s daughter, but no better word occurs to him. Worf skips backwards an hour, and finds Data in the same position. He continues working backwards, hour after hour. Watching Data’s work dwindle piece by piece until Worf sees Data staring intently at an empty work space.

For a moment, Worf imagines he sees a look of faint sadness on Data’s face. It’s foolishness, of course, to ascribe such things to Data. Projection. Besides, at the moment that Worf is observing, Data could have had no way of knowing how his attempt to create another of his kind would end. Even if Data was capable of sadness, there would be no call for it. Not yet.

Worf skips backwards more rapidly. He sees how Data got the workstation, an adroit usage of Starfleet requisition procedures followed by the moving of some furniture. Afterwards, the workstation was simply transported in. He sees Data in the last presentation he attended at the conference. The one on sub-micron matrix transfer, which Worf can only grasp in broad strokes. Data said it was the inspiration for Lal, and watching the footage, Worf believes him. Data sat in the front row of the lecture hall. He listened carefully, as he always does. He asked multiple questions, some of which the presenter struggled to answer. He also took copious notes. Data almost never takes notes. He has no need to. Unless he’s drawing up schematics. 

Continuing backwards, the difference between Data at the sub-micron matrix transfer talk and the others is marked. Data may not have emotions, but he certainly has different levels of attention. Worf has seen it many times. Especially when Data is interacting with others. He’s visibly more present when speaking with, say, Geordi than he is with his other colleagues. At the other talks, Data listened politely and occasionally asked questions, but he displayed none of the rapt attention that he would show later at the sub-micron matrix transfer talk.

Worf follows that vein and finds more of the same. Data attending panels every hour they were available and working quietly in his room when they were not. A good result from the perspective of Data’s defense, although only trivially so because of the gaps in the footage. Worf can’t prove that Data wasn’t doing anything incriminating when the cameras were down. Even if he could, that wouldn’t exculpate him. Data could have planned and executed the murder at any time, before or after the conference. Trying to prove that he did not is a fool’s errand. What Worf needs to do is prove that someone else killed Bruce Maddox.

And speaking of Bruce Maddox, there he is, in his quarters, looking supremely annoyed as Data leaves. There are two unfinished meals on the table. Two. Data has no need to eat and derives no pleasure from it. He’s been known to eat small amounts of food from time to time, out of curiosity or courtesy. But as cordial as they supposedly were, it’s not a courtesy Worf can imagine Data extending to Maddox. Worf stops the reverse playback and has the computer go back to the beginning of the interaction.

It started on the shuttle pad. Data’s and Maddox's shuttles arrived at about the same time. Maddox had Hegel in tow. Worf notes that Hegel was wearing men’s clothing. On the Enterprise Hegel wore a women’s jumpsuit during the brief period after she was released from the brig, but before she was transferred to Galor IV. Counselor Troi expressed concern that giving Hegel women’s clothing might cause distress. It turned out to be a moot point, as Hegel did not seem to recognize the differences between men and women’s clothing. Not, it would appear, an ignorance that she retained by the time of the conference.

Worf sees the moment Maddox noticed Data. He sees the naked hunger that bloomed in Maddox’s eyes. It’s the first time Worf has seen it for himself. It is… startling. Maddox papered over it quickly with a broad, insincere smile and called out a greeting to Data.

Worf turns up the audio. The computer has automatically made a transcript, including inflection notes, but Worf trusts his own ears and judgement more than that of a machine.

"Hello, Commander Maddox. Hello, Mr. Hegel." Data said, acknowledging the greeting and stopping politely to allow Maddox and Hegel to fall into step with him.

"Hi." Hegel said, distractedly, turning her head jerkily as she looks around, falling slowly and steadily behind as the two men begin walking towards the conference center.

"Claudia." Maddox chided gently.

'Claudia', Worf remembers distantly, is Hegel's given name. He never had cause to use it. Worf is not in the habit of speaking informally to those in his custody. Apparently Maddox is. Or was, rather. Worf checks the date Hegel’s identification paperwork went through. Stardate 36128.76. The day after the conference.

Although Maddox’s use of Hegel’s given name was legally accurate at the time, the way that Hegel briefly clenched her fists in response suggests that it was not welcome.

"What was it this time?" Maddox asked, smiling indulgently.

"The sky." She said, falling awkwardly into step, "It's green."

“Oh.” Maddox chuckled. “I’m surprised the novelty of that sort of thing hasn’t worn off by now.”

"Not yet.” Hegel said, quietly. 

Hegel's body language is easier to examine in detail through a recording than it was in person. The tremors in her hands, varying unpredictably from small flutters of her fingertips to wild and forceful swings and jerks of both arms. The strange slackness in her spine and shoulders. Her gait, somewhat digitigrade in a skeleton not configured for it. The furtive eye movements, constantly scanning her surroundings. She looks wary, frightened even, and slightly impaired. If he didn’t know about Hegel’s congenital brain deformities, Worf would assume she was intoxicated.

She, Data and Maddox make odd companions, walking together along the long shuttle pad.

“Are you looking forward to the Convention this year, Data?” Maddox asked.

“Yes, there are several panels on topics I find intriguing.” Data responded politely.

“Ah, but what does it mean for you to be ‘intrigued’?” Maddox prodded, “For a human, that would be an emotional response.”

The surveillance system lost visual contact with the three of them for a moment as they entered the convention center. Worf notes the time and place. It’s a security flaw, and along with all the others he’s discovered in this investigation, it will be corrected once this case is resolved. Worf will see to it.

The audio is intact, however.

After an unusually long, for him at least, pause, Data said, “It has been established to the satisfaction of most that I experience curiosity and other intellectual drives in much the same way that humans do.”

“I really don’t see how that’s possible, Data. You’re just so different from us.” Maddox replied.

The video feed resumes. Data looked neutral as ever. Maddox was half-smiling, his eyes fixed intently on Data. Hegel looked… unsettled, if not distressed by the exchange.

“There is significant evidence to suggest that my cognitive architecture was designed to create a human-like subjective experience.” Data responded, far more patient than Worf would be in his place.

“But that brings us back to the point of your lack of-” Maddox continued to press, or tried to.

“The sky.” Hegel said, suddenly, cutting Maddox off, “How is it green?”

“Claudia, this really isn’t the time. I can explain atmospheric scattering to you later.” Maddox said impatiently.

“No.” Hegel insisted, before pausing for a moment, moving her mouth slightly, as if struggling to find the words, “I… I… don’t... I don’t need you to explain 19th century physics to me. I’m from the 21st century, not the Paleolithic.” 

Maddox looked taken aback, and then gave Data an apologetic look, “I was planning to invite you over for dinner, but it’s been a long journey, and it seems…”

“No.” Hegel interrupted him again, “I’m… I’m sorry. I’m fine, really. Just cranky. Food will help. Please join us. It… it… would make a nice change.”

The look she gave Data could only be interpreted as pleading. Worf wonders if Data noticed. 

“I have no pressing obligations this evening.” Data admitted, unwisely in Worf’s opinion.

“Excellent.” Maddox said, smiling broadly.

The three of them made their way to Maddox’s quarters. Worf checks, and confirms that Hegel had her own room. She did. Next door to Maddox’s. Perhaps to facilitate any maintenance she might need for her implant, or maybe whoever made those arrangements assumed that Hegel would desire or benefit from proximity to Maddox for other reasons. From what Worf has seen, he sincerely doubts that assumption is accurate. 

Hegel sat down awkwardly at the small table in Maddox’s quarters. Maddox went to replicate food for himself and his… Patient? Test subject? Zimmerman used the phrase ‘lab rat’, which while certainly impolite, might not be entirely inaccurate. Hegel stared at Maddox’s turned back for a long moment, her hands clenching and unclenching in her lap. 

“What are you in the mood for, Claudia?” Maddox asked.

“I… I…” Hegel struggled with her words again, the clenching and unclenching of her hands became more rapid, “I’m not sure.”

“Hmm. Choice paralysis again?” Maddox asked, apparently rhetorically. “Don’t worry, I’ll pick something you like.”

Hegel’s hands clenched sharply into fists and did not release, “Okay.”

Data sat down beside Hegel, glancing at her clenched fists.

“Andy.” Data said, glancing briefly at Hegel’s clenched hands, “Would you care to elaborate on the question you had earlier, regarding the color of the sky on this planet?”

Hegel calmed down a little, “Yeah, um, so what I wanted to know wasn’t so much how is it green but how do I see green. Like, the sun, I mean Sol, is green, but it looks white to humans. And stars peaking in the ‘green’ range, I mean stars from far away, look white too.”

“Ah. While not all humans perceive color in the same way, you are broadly correct.” Data said, “The apparent color is the result of the relative position of the planet and its sun, an A type star, and also interactions between the solar radiation and the planet’s atmosphere.”

Worf is surprised at the brevity of Data’s explanation. Then again, Data does not generally have difficulty explaining things in simple terms to children or the uneducated. His digressive, and at times long-winded, explanations are more likely to occur in a professional setting. Perhaps he is reluctant to omit anything that might be relevant in a dangerous situation. A reasonable impulse, although often annoying.

“Okay…” Hegel said, seeming unsatisfied.

Maddox came to the table with the food, “It was dusk when we landed. During the day time, the sky looks pale violet.”

“That is not strictly accurate.” Data said, “It appears near-ultraviolet, peaking at approximately 415 nanometers, to those who can perceive those wavelengths.”

“Ohh.” Hegel said, “So the star peaks somewhere in the blue/violet range and the green is the longer wavelengths being refracted as this part of the planet rotates away from the sun.”

“I believe that is what I said.” Data pointed out mildly.

Maddox chuckled, “The phrasing matters, Data.”

Hegel looked down at the table. The expression on her face is either anger or shame. Perhaps both. She begins to eat the food Maddox gave her, but not without noticeable distaste. 

"So, Data-" Maddox began.

"So you can see ultraviolet?" Hegel cut him off yet again.

Maddox clenched his jaw and exhaled sharply in frustration. Either unable or unwilling to hide his frustration with Hegel's possibly unintentional rudeness. 'Possibly unintentional' is probably too generous. In the footage Worf has seen so far, Hegel interrupted Maddox 4 times, but never Data. Not once. Worf supposes it might have been subconscious, rather than deliberately infuriating. There's no way to know unless he questions Hegel directly. 

"No." Data said, "My visual range is comparable to that of a typical human. However, a close friend of mine has an extremely wide visual range. I speak with him often about the subjective experience of light and color."

"How is Geordi these days?" Maddox asked, "Still put out with me?"

"Put out?!" Geordi says indignantly, "That's one hell of an understatement.”

Worf wonders at what point Geordi began… not watching, clearly, but attending to the footage. 

“I cannot speak for Commander LaForge’s emotional state at this time.” Data said, cautiously. 

“I see.” Maddox said, clearly and correctly taking that as ‘yes’. “That’s a shame. He’s one of the people who could be helped by this technology”

He gestured casually at Hegel. Hegel immediately turned her head down and away from him, hiding her face from his view. But not, fortunately for Worf, out of view of the camera. Her hands clenched hard in her lap.

After a long, laborious moment, she said, “If… If your friend likes the set-up he has now, he should keep it.”

The bitterness in her voice is tangible.

Geordi nods, perhaps unconsciously, in response. Worf pauses the footage and contemplates what Geordi can’t see. Hegel’s face. Her face is less mobile than that of most humans. It would almost remind Worf of a Vulcan face, if it wasn’t for the moments where she’s seized by some extreme emotions and her face becomes entirely transparent. Worf wonders if she’s aware of this. Likely not, unless someone told her. If Worf understands Dr. Crusher’s notes correctly, her inability to perceive the facial expressions of others likely extends to herself.

Worf sums up all of the constituent microexpressions: anger, fear, shame and naked calculation. He compares it against everything he’s learned as a security officer. Which is no small amount. And he comes to one, inescapable, conclusion. The look on Hegel’s face was murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Klaaraa, for her much needed gentle prodding and her assistance with editing.


	7. Qualitative Incompatibility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geordi reviews correspondence between Data and Andy Hegel. He doesn't like what he finds.

Geordi is exhausted. His fingers seem to slip off the data in front of him. He keeps thinking that there’s something wrong with the display, but he knows there’s not. The displays he used when he was younger sometimes malfunctioned like that, with areas of the display getting stuck on a particular texture. It hasn’t been a problem since Geordi got his VISOR and started fixing them himself. It’s just his brain, refusing to go on. 

Geordi sighs, closes the files and rubs his hands together for a moment, trying to clear the texture of the fine grains of information. He should probably try and get some sleep, but he honestly doesn’t think he can. So what to do? Geordi wouldn’t feel right just passing the time with something frivolous, not now, with the clock ticking.

Data turned over access to his personal files when the Captain confined him to quarters. When Geordi agreed to be Data’s emergency power of attorney, he honestly never expected it to come up. Data is both highly durable, and highly resilient, and will almost certainly outlive them all. But to his surprise and dismay, Geordi has been called to serve a couple of times in the past few years. First because of Maddox’s push to disassemble Data, and now this. Geordi wonders if Data saw this stuff coming. If so, he never said. Geordi knows Data can lie, but he’s usually so scrupulously open and honest that the idea seems almost ridiculous. 

Geordi knows that he should have already looked through Data’s files to see if they contained anything exonerating. He’s been putting it off. Telling himself he has more important things to do, that he’ll get to it later. But ‘later’ is now. There’s no more time to procrastinate.

“Computer, access Data’s personal correspondence beginning Stardate 35307.07 and begin narration at 1.5x speed.”

“Recognized, Geordi LaForge. Access granted. Warning: Narration may be of excessive length. Do you still wish to proceed?”

“Yes.” Geordi says, impatiently. 

He begins listening, narrowing down the parameters as he goes. Data gets a _lot_ of correspondence. After an hour or two of listening and winnowing, Geordi comes to two threads that meet all his criteria for relevance. Data's ongoing correspondence with Maddox, which turns up very little of interest but does make Geordi simmer with barely containable rage, which at least helps keep him awake.

And then there's Andy Hegel. Who has experience killing people, and his own reasons to hate Bruce Maddox. A strange sense of apprehension creeps into Geordi's gut, edging out the residual rage from listening to Maddox's letters to Data. Geordi listens on, anyway.

Stardate: 36140.06

From: Andy Hegel, WWIII Memorial, New York City, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Unencrypted

Hey. I'm sure you've got shit to do. But I wanted to apologise for basically everything that happened at the conference.

  
  


Stardate: 36140.18

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, WWIII Memorial, New York City, Earth

Status: Unencrypted

I am uncertain why you would feel the need to apologize for the events of the Federation Cybernetics Conference, but if the urge to do so is troubling you, I am willing to accept your apology. Querry: Did you mean to use “shit” to mean “nothing of importance” or in the more abstract sense to mean “things/tasks/actions in general”?

Stardate: 36143.6

From: Andy Hegel, Gowanus Canal, New York City, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Unencrypted

“Things in general.” I'm still not used to how the UT works on vernacular phrases. It's been kind of… clunky since the surgery. Sorry to bother you.

Stardate: 36144.86

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, Gowanus Canal, New York City, Earth

Status: Unencrypted

Do not be concerned about expending my time or attention. My resources in that respect, while not infinite, are not easily expended. I carry on a number of correspondences with various individuals. Another correspondent would not be a noticeable burden. If I may ask you a favor, would you be willing to describe the changes you have experienced since you acquired your neuroprosthesis? As it is based on my own language center, I now find myself in the enviable position to discuss it with another person who has subjective experience of its use, with the additional benefit of a prior frame of reference. However, if discussing this matter is likely to cause you distress, please feel free to decline.

  
  


Stardate: 36144.97

From: Andy Hegel, Queens Local Transportation Hub, New York City, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Unencrypted

Oh. Okay. Well, obviously not having the headaches is an improvement. And the prosthesis does a decent job of making me comprehensible to others. But it's hard sometimes, to keep the thoughts from coming out of my mouth. And when they do, they don't usually come out the way I meant them. I don't know if it's the language gap, or limitations of the technology itself. My ability to write has been impacted more than I expected. I didn't realize how much I used to rely on imagining myself talking to get stuff written down. 

  
  


Stardate: 36144.97

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, Queens Local Transportation Hub, New York City, Earth

Status: Unencrypted

It is unfortunate that none of your preexisting writings exist as a basis for comparison. However, your writing abilities appear serviceable. Has your ability to produce speech improved since the conference? 

  
  


Stardate: 36145.2

From: Andy Hegel, Queens Local Transportation Hub, New York City, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Unencrypted

Thank God all that stuff was lost. The academics sniff around my personal business more than enough already. It’s no great loss. I was never a poet. My speech has gotten better. Hesitation and processing time is way down. When I first got here, some of the street food vendors would ask me if I hit my head recently. That’s mostly stopped, although it might be that word got around. Is ‘vendor’ the word? Obviously, they’re not doing it for money. I don’t know what you call that. Other than delicious. I’ve never eaten so well in my life.

  
  


Stardate: 36145.2

From: Andy Hegel, Queens Local Transportation Hub, New York City, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Encrypted

I don’t know what your clearance is, but if you poke around with the DTI, you might be able to get access to some of my social media posts. Don’t hold them against me. It was a fucked up time.

  
  


Stardate: 36145.2

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, Queens Local Transportation Hub, New York City, Earth

Status: Encrypted

The course of action you suggested in your most recent message would be highly illegal. The Department of Temporal Investigations has chosen to seal your past writings. They do not make such determinations lightly. For the sake of the integrity of the timeline, and in the interests of avoiding criminal exposure under the law, you would be wise to respect their decision, also.

  
  


Stardate: 36156.39

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, Manaháhtaan Indigenous Peoples Memorial, New York City, Earth

Status: Unencrypted

Would you be willing to undergo an examination by a speech pathologist? I would be fascinated to see how you have adapted to your neuroprosthesis, and see if useful comparisons can be made with the evolution of my own speech.

Stardate: 36157.07

From: Andy Hegel, Manaháhtaan Indigenous Peoples Memorial, New York City, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Unencrypted

To be honest, I’m kind of sick of doctors and getting examined. Really sick. But I’ll see what I can do. At least, as soon as I can get my fingers to thaw out. If Earth’s climate is controlled, why is it so damned cold?

  
  


Stardate: 36158.1

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, WWIII Memorial, New York City, Earth

Status: Unencrypted

Earth’s climate is optimized the wellbeing of both sentient life forms and the ecosystem as a whole. As it is currently early spring in Earth’s northern hemisphere and you are at a relatively high latitude, low temperatures are to be expected. Have you not secured lodgings? 

  
  


Stardate: 36158.44

From: Andy Hegel, WWIII Memorial, New York City, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Unencrypted

It gets so cold at night here. Climate change was super shitty, but at least it was warm. I’ve had my hands in my pockets all morning. I need to go somewhere warmer. I know just the place, but I’ve been avoiding it because I’m a fucking coward. I’ll hop a train in the morning and get back to you about the workup on the other end. 

Stardate: 36158.44

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, WWIII Memorial, New York City, Earth

Status: Unencrypted

I must advise you in the strongest possible terms not to stowaway on a locomotive.

  
  


Stardate: 36161.07

From: Andy Hegel, Central Florida Wildlife Conservation Zone, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Unencrypted

Didn’t actually hop the train. I rode it in a lawful and orderly fashion. Why would I bother freight hopping when passenger rail is free? Half the time I even have a whole car to myself. So far as I can tell, no one else on this planet bothers with the trains, except for Vulcan tourists. I have no idea how they cope with the cold. My planet was only about 1 °C warmer than this one and I’m shaking like a leaf constantly. Anyway, I found a professor of speech pathology in Athens, GA who could see me same day, so I stopped there on my way to the Ditch. I think the poor man dropped everything for the chance to see my archaic brain in action. I'll send you the file when I have it.

Stardate: 36161.18

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, Central Florida Wildlife Conservation Zone, Earth

Status: Unencrypted

Thank you for agreeing to undergo this inconvenience. In case you were not aware, referring to the Trans-Floridian Rift as "The Ditch" or "The Xindi Ditch" is considered racially insensitive.

  
  


Stardate: 36161.3

From: Andy Hegel, Central Florida Wildlife Conservation Zone, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Unencrypted

Today I rode a hoverbike for three hours, and then hiked for four more. I stared down into an endless crevasse of glass smooth volcanic rock, gleaming in the sun, exactly where my hometown used to be. You’ll forgive me if I’m not in the mood to make diplomatic language choices. The complete results from the speech workup are attached. I can’t believe they ration subspace data file transmissions. These people don’t ration anything. Too busy putting the “post” in “post-scarcity”.

Stardate: 36161.41

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, Central Florida Wildlife Conservation Zone, Earth

Status: Unencrypted

The emotional distress you have experienced in the past, and continue to experience as you reconcile to your temporal dislocation does not, in my opinion, excuse you from being unkind to and about others. No Xindi individual alive today bears any moral responsibility for the crimes their ancestors committed. In any case, I have received the results from your examination. Thank you again. Commander Maddox's recent data request will also be satisfied by these results, if you were concerned about the possibility of redundant examinations.

  
  


Stardate: 36161.41

From: Andy Hegel, Central Florida Wildlife Conservation Zone, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Unencrypted

How did you know that Maddox wanted me to get examined? Is this going to get back to him?

  
  


Stardate: 36147.71

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, Central Florida Wildlife Conservation Zone, Earth

Status: Unencrypted

Commander Maddox recently sent me a message seeking my input on which areas of functioning should be assessed. I stated my opinion, with proper disclaimers that I do not have any working experience in speech pathology. Commander Maddox most likely received the results some time earlier today, pursuant to your consent to treatment agreement.

  
  


Stardate: 36178.53

From: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

To: Andy Hegel, Central Florida Wildlife Conservation Zone, Earth

Status: Unencrypted

Have I said or done something to offend you?

Stardate: 36290.75

From: Andy Hegel, Central Florida Wildlife Conservation Zone, Earth.

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Encrypted

I heard about what happened. I'm so sorry for your loss. For whatever it's worth, what happened isn’t your fault. I think you did the right thing. 

Stardate: 36339.95

From: Andy Hegel, Central Florida Wildlife Conservation Zone, Earth

To: Lt. Commander Data, USS Enterprise - 1701 D

Status: Encrypted

Did you make it home okay?

Geordi's creeping apprehension has blossomed into full blown dread. He forwards the entire thread to Worf before surrendering to exhaustion and despair. He hauls himself out of his chair and stumbles into bed, immediately falling into a fitful and nightmare haunted sleep.


	8. Fragments and Transitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worf reviews some salvaged footage from the Federation Cybernetics Conference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes with some heavy-duty additional tags.

Worf takes a long sip of Raktajino. Usually, it would be far too stimulating, but he’s been working uninterruptedly for 48 hours. If there was anyone watching, he’d muscle through it like a warrior. But no one is watching, and this task is one of the mind, not the body. He needs to be alert

Geordi has managed to recover a few scraps of video from the conference center’s surveillance system. Worf is reviewing them. It’s slow work. The file corruption stripped the packets of their metadata. Tracking who appears in each packet, and reconstructing the order of events has been many hours of painstaking work. Worf watches the sequence again.

There’s a burst of audiovisual static as corrupted footage transitions into salvaged.

“- the body dysmorphia. Do you have any plans to work on that?” a male voice asked.

Maddox’s eager, almost manic smile is marred by a cascade of iridescent pixels, “I did at first. I thought I could knock it out with the coordination problems. The severe deficits in proprioception are probably at the root of both. But lately, Claudia’s been letting her defenses down around me. Being more feminine. Honestly, I think it’s resolving on its own now that she knows she’s safe.”

“That’s not how it works in Vulcans or Betazoids,” his interlocutor pointed out.

Maddox laughed, “Claudia’s not a Vulcan, or a Betazoid. She’s a -”

The footage decoheres. Worf proceeds to the next intact packet.

“Cheer up, Claudia.” Maddox said, in what Worf supposes was meant to be a soothing tone, “Just one more Q&A today. And look, I brought you something from home.”

He was holding a sandwich on a plate. The sandwich appeared to have contained some kind of shredded, marinated meat. 

“It’s Florida Style Barbecue.” He added, smiling in response to Hegel’s scowling face.

“No such thing.” Hegel muttered. 

“Pardon me?”

“There’s no such thing as Florida Style Barbecue!” she said, a little bit too loudly for polite company, “There’s Georgia Style, there’s Cuban Style, and variations on the two.”

She looked down at the sandwich and grimaced, “Besides, I don’t eat pork.”

“A laudable choice back in your time, when an intelligent animal had to be slaughtered to produce it.” Maddox said, waving the plate in the vicinity of Hegel’s nose, “But you can indulge now, there’s no harm done.”

“I don’t…” Hegel began to repeat herself.

“Come on.” Maddox said, in a tragically failed attempt to sound enticing, waving the plate closer to her face.

Hegel’s grimace intensified, and she seemed to be moving to leave the table, but she was too late. She vomited. Most of it landed on the plate. A significant portion of it landed on Bruce Maddox. The slimy, milky beige splash on Maddox’s uniform suggests that Hegel had a stomach full of coffee, milk and little or nothing else. Worf notes this. According to Hegel’s file, she’s not supposed to have caffeine. Someone must have given it to her.

“Hey, Bruce.” Zimmerman sauntered by, feigning nonchalance, “It might interest you to know that pork smells almost exactly like-”

And then the footage decoheres.

The next packet is from not long after the previous one. Worf can tell because of the large clock on the bedside table, displaying the time and date in the old Gregorian system. Hegel was laying on her back in her quarters, gulping down air, her jumpsuit stripped to the waist and some kind of compression garment laying just barely together over her chest. It looks as if it had been cut, or perhaps ripped by impossibly strong and dexterous hands.

Data stood a few steps away from the bed, watching carefully as the blue tinge faded from Hegel’s lips and fingertips. 

“That garment is intended for brief theatrical performances, not extended use. Had I not be present to assist, you could have severely injured yourself.” He observed mildly.

“I know. I know. It was a mistake.” Hegel said, with naked desperation in her voice. “I’ll figure out how to make replicator patterns and make myself a proper one when I get back to Earth. Please don’t report me for self-harm. They’ll just use it as an excuse to-”

And although Worf would very much like to hear the end of that sentence, the footage once again decoheres.

The last packet begins with Hegel and Maddox drinking something out of large mugs in the conference center canteen. The pronounced flush on Maddox’s face, and the way he sloshed a little bit of his beverage every time he lifted it to his lips, suggests alcohol. And in quantity. The canteen was full of cyberneticists, most of whom appear to have been drinking, also. Many of them in Starfleet uniforms. Worf pauses to take still images of their faces and compare them to Starfleet service records. He’ll send a note to each of their commanding officers, later. 

“This p-punch is reaaally good. Do you have any more?” Maddox asked, clumsily holding his empty cup out to Hegel.

Hegel laughed, but her hands were still and clenched in her lap, “One more round. No harm done.”

She reached under the table and produced a large stoppered bottle. She filled both of their cups and downed most of hers in one long gulp. She didn’t seem nearly so intoxicated as Maddox. Perhaps she used some kind of trickery to make it seem that she was drinking more than she was. Or perhaps she simply leveraged the wide differential between their tolerances. In the past, she was a habitual alcohol consumer. And a Starfleet officer might go many years without touching the substance. At least, in theory. 

Stupidly, Maddox tried to copy her big gulp. He managed to get it down, and keep it down, but he was clearly fighting back nausea. A few moments later, when the latest dose of alcohol began to take effect, his eyes started to unfocus.

“I th-” Maddox began, but then closed his mouth fast and swallowed vigorously, “I think it’s time for us to go to bed.”

“Oh, come on.” Hegel teased, looking up at Maddox with innocent, childlike eyes. Worf wonders if that’s the image her clients preferred she adopt, in the past. “Just one more?”

“N-n-no. It’s… definitely bedtime.” Maddox insisted, “Come on, I’ll take you.”

They stood up. Hegel a little clumsily, and Maddox credibly threatening to collapse in the process. He reached for Hegel’s arm as if to guide her, but ended up leaning on her for balance instead. Their combined gait was extremely awkward. Hegel is short by current standards, and when he was alive, Maddox was above average height. His leaning on her shifted their center of gravity dangerously to one side. But Hegel managed to get them both shuffling along at a decent pace, occasionally shifting both of their weight onto one of her legs to stop them from tipping over.

She and Maddox made their way to his quarters. He was able to transfer his weight from Hegel’s shoulder to the door frame, and then the wall of the small room, following it towards his bed. He collapsed into it.

Maddox looked up at Hegel and babbled briefly before losing consciousness, “You could… you know… if you-”

Hegel looked down at him, the murderous gaze Worf saw in the footage of her dinner with Maddox and Data entered her eyes once more as she stared intensely at the prone form of Bruce Maddox. Which she did, unmoving, unblinking, until the point where the footage decoheres.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to my beta Klaaraa, and Happy New Year to all!


	9. The Prosecution Will (Not) Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Data is arrested. Worf decides to chase a lead. Geordi learns something deeply disturbing about the contents of Bruce Maddox's dream diary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. Sorry this took so long. Now seems a good a time as any to let you know that this series will NOT be Star Trek: Picard compliant. I'm firmly of the opinion that Starfleet wouldn't have a mistreated synths seeking revenge problem if they'd proactively gotten rid of their Bruce Maddox problem. Also, this chapter contains some grossness that resists categorization. I've tried my best, but Bruce Maddox is his own warning.

The Enterprise has arrived at Starbase 001. Worf has failed. They came for Data approximately 4 minutes after the docking sequence was complete. Data did not resist, nor offer protest.

It takes Worf everything he has to maintain his composure. To follow orders. To keep himself from having what his foster mother used to call 'an outburst', as Data is led through the corridors of the Enterprise in heavy duranium cuffs. It's a pointless humiliation. Those cuffs could hold an enraged Klingon warrior, but Data could shatter them without even straining his servomotors. He will not, though, and these shameless cowards know it. He is obedient. Loyal, even now. Worf has always admired that quality in him. But now, he's beginning to doubt.

It's Worf's prerogative as the Enterprise's Chief Security Officer to follow Data as far as the transporter room, and he is choosing to exercise it.

Captain Picard is with them, as is his duty. He didn’t take up the matter of the manacles with the junior officers that were sent to collect Data, but several people on the Bridge overheard shouting from his ready room a few hours earlier. Whether it was about how Data was to be arrested, or the blatant injustice that he’s being arrested at all, Worf does not know. He walks half a step behind his captain, noting Picard’s tightly clenched jaw. The captain is an accomplished diplomat, and has been pleasantly unflappable in any number of uncomfortable situations. But here, now, he is either unable, or perhaps unwilling, to school his face into neutrality.

Worf approves.

Geordi, conspicuously, isn’t present. Of course, he doesn’t have an official reason to be here. But, given how close he and Data are, Worf suspect that Captain Picard would have come up with a justification, if Geordi had asked. So he is forced to conclude that Geordi did not ask. Worf’s hearts tell him that that is the rankest, most unforgivable cowardice. But instinct is sometimes ignorant, and applying Klingon standards to a human is foolish. The emotional response Geordi is concealing might well be tears, not rage. And while Data may not be capable of emotion, he has been known to become quite… concerned when Geordi is upset.

They arrive at the transporter room. Data and the arresting officers mount the platform. 

“A moment, please.” Picard says, his words polite but his tone brooking no argument.

No argument is forthcoming.

“Data, I…” the captain begins, but then trails off.

After a moment of silence, Data says, “Thank you, sir, for everything you have done for me. My service on the Enterprise has been the most stimulating and affirming time of my existence.”

Picard’s spine stiffens, “I’ll hear none of that, Commander. Once these  _ ridiculous  _ charges are dealt with, I expect you back at your post, understood?”

“Given the-” Data begins, but then stops himself in response to the pointed look on Picard’s face, “Yes, sir.”

Worf brings his fist to his hearts and says, “Qapla’”

Data’s knowledge is vast, but not infinite. Worf is unsure whether Data knows that the particular stress he put on the vowels carries the implication that Worf expects Data to return. Whether he does or not is of little consequence. Sometimes the value of words lies more in speaking them, than in them being understood.

The transporter technician looks to the Captain. Picard nods curtly.

“Goodbye.” Data says, his voice almost melancholy, as he dematerializes. 

Captain Picard’s face hardens, “Walk with me, Mr. Worf.”

Worf, of course, obeys. He notices that the Captain’s pace is far brisker than usual as they leave the transporter room.

“Your investigation into this matter hasn’t escaped my attention, Lieutenant. You haven’t been particularly discreet.” Picard says, “Nor, would it seem, have you been particularly successful.”

They board the turbolift.

Worf casts his eyes to the ground in shame, “No, sir. But I believe I have a lead.”

“I suggest you follow it.” the captain says, sharply, “Quickly.”

“Yes, sir.”

\---

Geordi lets Guinan pour him another Saurian Sunrise. She looks straight at him, just briefly, but he looks away. He doesn’t want to talk. To anyone. He’s afraid that if someone starts asking questions, a dam will break and he'll say something he'll regret for the rest of his life. No questions, not even from himself. The mild intoxication of the synthehol keeps him despondent rather than enraged, or unmanageably anxious. He wonders if Guinan keeps any of the good stuff around. Real alcohol. That night at the Academy, before the vomiting, the passing out, and the headache from hell, he remembers feeling like all was right with the universe. Geordi would really like to feel that way right now.

Last night, after he woke up from a shallow and fitful sleep, Geordi had a hunch. Not about the case, but about something unrelated. Completely, absolutely, unrelated. He’ll swear to that to anyone who asks. Groggily, he looked up the error reports from the neutron flow regulation system, ran his fingers over the sequence of information again and again, tracing it to its root. Which happened to be 32.4 seconds after Data completed a large file transfer from his personal hub to the Enterprise’s main computer.

On a  _ completely _ idle impulse, Geordi looked up whether the outpost at Galor IV reported any issues with their neutron flow regulation system, before the incident. As a matter of what Geordi is prepared to claim in a court of law is pure coincidence, they did. Disruptions very similar to those on the Enterprise. That’s when Geordi, for no particular reason, decided to take a break. He happened to forget to save his work. Because he was still sleepy. He tried to go back to bed, but that didn’t work. Then he tried to do something to help Data’s case, but was seized by the fear that he would find yet more  _ coincidences _ . That’s how he ended up here. Drinking drink after drink and pretending, badly, that he’s thinking of nothing at all.

His combadge chirps. 

Fighting back a surge of apprehension, he answers it, “LaForge here.”

“Lieutenant. Starfleet Command has just informed me that Data has suffered a malfunction of some kind.”

“Already?” Geordi asks, aghast, “What the hell are they doing to him over there?!”

“I share your concern, Lieutenant.” the Captain replies, “They have refused to share the details, but they have agreed to allow you to assist him. Report to the Starbase immediately, with any tools you may need.”

“Yes, sir.” Geordi says, already on his way out of Ten Forward.

“And Mr. LaForge?” the Captain adds, “I expect a full report. Picard out.”

And then Geordi is running, first to Engineering, where he grabs the android first aid kit he and Data have put together over the years, and then to the docking point. 

He rushes through the Starbase, past Starfleet officers and civilians alike, gasping out, “Engineering emergency.” each time someone seems like they’re about to stop him.

Station security is waiting for him when he gets there, looking more than a little amused at his haste. 

"You're the android's technician?" one asks.

Geordi bites back the dozens of bitter retorts that immediately come to mind, there might not be time.

“Yes.” 

“Come this way.”

They have Data in an interrogation room. The strange and jarring colors of several overlapping sensor fields assault Geordi’s brain. Instinctively, his eyes blink beneath his VISOR, trying to clear the discomfort. 

“Ah. Geordi is here.” Data says, “I apologize for the interruption, but as he has been assisting me with repairs for many years, he is most efficient.”

Data is sitting in that distinctive way of his, with his arms straight and slightly elevated at his sides, in a chair at the center of the room. A smug human woman is smiling at him menacingly. A Lieutenant in security gold, or perhaps command red. The shades are so close together, Geordi often has difficulty distinguishing them, and in the disorienting light of the sensor fields he’s lucky he can rule out blue.

She turns that smile on Geordi, “Oh, take as much time as you need. I think I have everything I need.”

Geordi doesn’t let that incredibly ominous statement bring him down, because Data is okay. Or, at least, he looks okay. He’s structurally intact, upright, and speaking. His aura looks normal, too.

For lack of any other surface, Geordi crouches at Data’s feet and opens his tool case on the floor.

“So what happened?” he asks, pretending he doesn’t feel the Lieutenant’s gaze burning into the back of his neck.

“I suffered a forceful, involuntary contraction of my right hand and forearm, resulting in the destruction of a padd I was reading from at the time. I immediately ran diagnostics, but my systems returned no explanation for the incident.”

The smug Lieutenant scoffs, “ _ I  _ can think of an explanation.”

Geordi ignores her, she’s clearly spoiling for a fight and he doesn’t intend to give her one.

Instead, he speaks directly to Data, as if they were the only ones in the room, “Well, that’s definitely a problem. I’m going to open up your arm and take a look, okay?”

“Of course.” Data says, and offers his arm, palm up.

Geordi settles down onto his knees and positions himself so that his body blocks the ominously sanguine Lieutenant’s view of what he’s doing. After years and years of people treating Data’s check-ups and repairs as public cybernetics demonstrations, Geordi’s gotten very sensitive about his friend’s privacy. Data has never seemed to care one way or another, but he indulges Geordi, within reason. Geordi runs his finger along the seams on Data’s arm, and pulls back the flaps of synthetic skin, still warm to the touch and carrying an imitation heartbeat even while flayed away from the limb. 

Geordi does a brief visual inspection for any debris that might have gotten in there. Data’s servo motor lubrication fluid has been known to leak and congeal into hard little chunks that can get stuck in inconvenient places. He doesn’t see anything, so he uses a probe to look for dust or grit. Nothing. 

He puts the probe down, “Well, it’s not a mechanical issue with the arm itself, and if there was a problem with the motor impulse conduction system, I’d be able to see it, since it’s a big part of what makes your aura.”

“Meaning that it is most likely an issue with my positronic brain.” Data infers smoothly, “Lt. Marse, would it be possible for me to return to the Enterprise briefly for a full diagnostic? The procedure requires a direct link to the Enterprise’s computer.”

“Only if you can get the judge to order it.” Marse replies curtly.

Geordi takes a deep breath to calm himself, “Okay. I’ll see what I can do with the computer model of your brain we built last year. It’s pretty crude, but it might give me a hint. Can you tell me what you were doing when the malfunction happened?”

“I was reviewing a document provided to me by Lieutenant Marse.” Data says.

Geordi’s hackles raise immediately, but he keeps his voice calm, “Were there any unusual stimuli in the document?”

“I am…” Data hesitates, “Unsure.”

That’s a very un-Data-like answer. 

“Can you tell me more?” Geordi asks.

“Certainly. The document was plain text, written in Federation Standard. I have not had any difficulty reading such documents in the past. However, in this case I…” Data pauses, “I found myself allocating an increasing amount of my available processing power to my analysis of the document, far in excess of the amount I would typically allocate to a similar task. Almost immediately, my neural net ceased to process anything other than my most basic functions and the document itself. Despite this intense focus, I did not arrive at any particular conclusion or insight, and yet I found myself unable to redirect resources to other matters.”

“Huh.” Geordi says, a creeping dread rising in his stomach.

He turns to Lieutenant Marse, “I’m going to need a copy of that document for the computer model.”

She smiles at him, all teeth, “Sure, why not? It’s been declassified for the court martial, anyway.”

She sends a copy to Geordi’s padd. He reads. It’s an excerpt from Maddox’s dream journal, because of course Bruce Maddox had a dream journal.

_ I had the dream again. About the new android. It’s always so vivid. I dream that she’s brought to me on a stretcher, like her father was more than two decades ago, after the reflecting pool incident. Her skin is softer than his. But the damage is the same. Little puckered openings where rough, careless hands grabbed and struck, inadvertently opening portions of the access seams, which let in water when they tossed him in. At the time, I was more amused than anything else, and excited at the opportunity to study Data more closely. But in the dream I am enraged and concerned. Sentimental. I hold one of her hands in mine and look into her eyes as I insert first the vacuum and then the compressed gas nozzle into one of the openings. She gasps, as if it hurts, but does not look away from me. As I plumb the larger openings, her gasps give way to moans, perhaps not entirely of pain. I always wake up before I finish. Unsatisfied. Perhaps Dr. Kenner is right, and I should schedule some time in the holodeck. _

Bile rises in Geordi's throat. His entire world narrows down to the words on the padd. A vivid fantasy of what Maddox's teeth would have felt like, shattering against his fist, plays on rapid repeat. Both his hands clench hard, his left into a fist at his side, and his right around the padd. 

He looks at Data, into his eyes. Eye contact can be tricky for Geordi. People can't see his eyes, so they don't realize when he's trying to make it, and most people avoid looking directly at his VISOR. But Data has always been extremely good at deducing the line of his gaze from his posture, and has never hesitated to look directly at his covered eyes. But this time, Data doesn't meet his eyes. Geordi's rage is cooled by a cascading dread. 

"I'll see what I can do on the Enterprise." He tells Data, willing him to follow his meaning.

"Thank you, Geordi." Data says, looking straight ahead.

Geordi clumsily gathers his tools. It feels wrong to just leave Data here, but he rips himself away. Captain Picard needs to know about this.


	10. The Devil Came Down to Florida

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Worf arrests a Florida Man. It doesn't go well.

Hegel is a surprisingly difficult person to find. Given the severity of her crimes, and her complete lack of expressed remorse, Worf would expect her to be kept on a very short leash indeed, if she was released at all. But to his surprise and dismay, Worf finds that she hasn’t been fitted with a tracker, or confined to any given town or city. Inexplicably, she’s been allowed to register as a transient with no fixed address, and the mandatory monthly medical scan and meeting with her parole officer seem to exist more to give the impression that her release was conditional than anything else. None of which is technically illegal, but it is so far outside the scope of best practices for the rehabilitation of violent criminals that it might as well be.

Worf is beginning to develop a theory as to how Hegel was convinced to consent to surgery. It sickens him.

Fortunately, Worf’s clearance allows him to bypass much of the red tape that a planetary peace officer would have to get through to access Hegel’s location data. Which would be no help at all if she were to reoffend in a way that did not involve Starfleet interests. Even as it is, it takes him almost 20 minutes of inputting override codes into Earth’s planetary security network to discover that Hegel is currently located… within a ten kilometer zone of uncertainty on the Floridian peninsula. Residual radiation from the Xindi attack continues to interfere with sensors and communications in the area, two centuries later. A fact that Hegel appears to have discovered and exploited.

It is not a pattern of behavior that suggests innocence.

Geordi has been in Captain Picard’s ready room for more than an hour. Verbal debriefings are not Captain Picard’s style. The entire Bridge crew has been set on edge by the aberration. It would seem that Geordi saw something at the Starbase. Worf hopes that Data remains in good medical, or he supposes mechanical, condition. Evidence against him can be overruled by better evidence. But if he has been seriously damaged, that is another matter. Geordi has never done major repairs without Data conscious to guide him. The only other person who might have had the skills to attempt such a thing is dead.

Worf forces himself to focus on narrowing down Hegel’s location. According to some correspondence Geordi flagged for him, she mentioned visiting the site of her hometown. A quick historical records check confirms that it is within the zone of uncertainty. And it is directly intersected by the Trans-Flordian Rift, which would be ideal for someone attempting to take advantage of its signal scrambling effect.

Worf loads his case notes onto a pad, verifies that his service weapon is fully charged, and goes to transporter room 3. Chief O’Brien is the only technician on board with the requisite experience operating the transporter under such conditions. 

It’s early afternoon in Florida, three hours ahead of Earth Standard Time. The heat is palpable, and mosquitoes swarm to Worf in the seconds before he configures his combadge to emit a repelling frequency. Sol is high in the sky, almost directly overhead, its harsh, blue-tinged light reflecting at odd angles off the glassy walls of the Rift. Worf’s eyes water from the glare. The air is wet and thick with scents. Almost immediately, he smells wood-smoke. As he follows the scent, others present themselves: fish entrails, the tell-tale void of a Federation standard camp toilet, and human urine tainted by alcohol.

Male urine. Probably from a boy of 14 or 15 years. Has Hegel had visitors? Worf is unsure how he feels about the idea of Hegel spending time with a minor, in general. She doesn’t have a history of harming children, at least not deliberately, but exposure to her profound mental illness could be harmful. He could also see her being a valuable resource to a young person with an interest in history, and the critical thinking skills not to take what she says as entirely true. But if she’s distributing alcohol to minors, Worf will personally ensure that her parole is revoked. There must be some limit to whatever corrupt bargain Hegel struck. Distributing addictive chemicals to a minor is categorically unacceptable.

The scent of urine forms a wide perimeter around an abandoned home made of large concrete bricks. Perhaps an unlikely survivor of the Xindi attack, more likely built afterwards by area residents who resisted resettlement. The words, ‘We’re still here, ya bastards!’ are crudely painted on the side, in faded and flaking red paint, just barely legible.

Worf makes no effort to conceal his approach. The tactical advantage he would gain would be negligible compared to the potential inconvenience of startling Hegel. Both Dr. Kenner, Hegel’s physician at Galor IV and Dr. Crusher, agree that she’s prone to dissociative episodes when stressed. If Hegel’s release had come with reasonable conditions, such as mandatory counseling, Worf would have more detail on that. But he does not.

She emerges from the concrete structure at the sound of his footsteps, and freezes instantly when she sees him. Worf comes closer. He sniffs. Hegel’s scent is wrong. The smell of a male oozes through the stagnant air. Not just the urine around the site, but the scent that wafts from her body. 

“The devil didn’t stop in Georgia, I see.” Hegel says, nonsensically. 

Worf briefly weighs whether or not that was intended as a comment on his species, or his profession, and then dismisses the question entirely. It is not relevant.

“We need to talk.” He says instead.

“If you had a warrant, you would have shown it to me by now.” Hegel points out, her arms beginning to flap at her sides.

The motion propagates her scent. Or rather, his scent. Even knowing that it is some kind of biochemical mirage, Worf cannot deny what's right under his nose. Inexplicably, Hegel smells like an adolescent male. Worf notices the beginnings of a beard sprouting from his chin. The effect is… disorienting, to say the least. Somehow, Hegel has done something to alter his endocrine system. Worf considers asking, but resolves to send a note to Hegel’s parole officer about it later, instead.

“Starfleet Security is not bound by the same regulations as planetary peace officers.” Worf says.

“‘Fully automated luxury military dictatorship’ isn’t a good look, you know.” Hegel grumbles.

Worf is unsure whether Hegel’s nonsensical speech is the product of Bruce Maddox’s handiwork, or just a result of the lack of shared cultural context between him and Worf.

“Where were you on the night of Stardate 36342?” 

"I am exercising my right to remain silent. I am exercising my right to an attorney." Hegel spouts off.

Worf was afraid this might happen. He hoped that Hegel's time in the 24th century had softened his antipathy towards law enforcement. That he would be able to understand that the modern field of Security bears no resemblance to the corrupt and incompetent police of Industrial Age Earth. Apparently not.

“This is a Starfleet matter. You are a suspect in the murder of a Starfleet officer. You do not have the right to an attorney at this stage and you do not have the right to refuse interrogation." Worf explains.

If Hegel is not guilty, perhaps being made aware of the matter will shock him into attempting to defend his innocence.

Hegel's eyes light up in understanding, but not shock. He knows why Worf’s here, and he is not surprised.. 

"Am I being detained or am I free to go?" He asks, tonelessly. She's already dissociating.

Worf growls in frustration, "You are being detained."

He taps his combadge several times with no result, before manually reconfiguring it for the bad signal environment.

"O'Brien here."

"Chief, can you read my life signs?" Worf asks.

"Aye, sir. You and a human… female I think."

The blood drains from Hegel's face, but he says nothing.

"Two to transport." Worf says, watching Hegel carefully, prepared to grab him if she tries to run, "Energize."

They dematerialize. After all these years, Worf hardly notices the disorientation anymore. Hegel clearly does. He's screaming before they fully materialize. Her face contorted in anguish, frantically clawing at his face and arms, raising angry red welts. 

Worf pins Hegel's arms to his sides with one of his own. Hegel struggles in his grasp for a moment, and then goes limp. The screams devolve into sobs. He can hear Hegel's heart thundering in his chest.

"What the hell?!" Chief O'Brien says, "Is she going to be okay?"

Worf doubts it.

"Computer, retrieve medical records for Andy Hegel and replicate his most recently prescribed emergency anxiety medication." He says, as Hegel's tears begin to soak into his sleeve.

"Please specify dose" the computer replies.

Worf considers for a moment, and then says "Maximum recommended dose."

The small replicator in the corner of the transporter room, mostly used to fabricate spare parts and cleaning supplies, makes a frustrated whine as it activates.

"Chief, assist me." He orders, gesturing at the replicator with his free hand.

"Yessir." O'Brien says, already moving to obey.

"No." Hegel whines desperately, "I don't want to. Don't make me."

O'Brien hesitates for half a step, but finds his resolve quickly and hands the hypospray to Worf.

Worf quickly presses it to Hegel's neck. The crying stops. He hoped to avoid a situation like this. He orders O'Brien to site-to-site transport them to the Brig. O'Brien looks extremely unsettled, but he obeys.

When they materialize, Hegel is already standing up under his own power, his heart rate stabilizing.

"I'd prefer to follow directions than to continue to be handled." He says, his voice chillingly calm for someone who was sobbing not 30 seconds ago.

Worf releases him and directs him to the closest cell, activating the field behind him.

Hegel talks as he goes, "So this is what the new med feels like. Alexithymia in a can. Really softens the surrender of power. My childhood would have been so much easier on this stuff."

He sits down calmly on the padded bench.

“Are you ready to be questioned now?” Worf asks, not entirely sure what he wants to hear.

“Ready?” Hegel asks, “No. Willing? Also no. But I recognize that I don’t have a choice. You can hold me here indefinitely until I crack, and it is preferable for me to concede in this moment, when I cannot feel the intense shame that would normally provoke in me.”

“Not indefinitely.” Worf replies, and then concedes, “But far longer than you would prefer.”

Hegel nods, as if Worf has just conceded a point in an entirely trivial argument. It’s disquieting, but almost everything about Hegel is. That’s why Q brought him here, to this time. Presumably the effect he has on the Captain is even more pronounced. 

“Please account for your whereabouts on Stardate 36339.” Worf says, watching Hegel closely.

Hegel pauses for a long moment, as he is known to do, before speaking, “I’m sorry, but I still haven't mastered the Stardate system. When would that be in Gregorian?”

Worf does not know. Starfleet Academy still uses the Gregorian system to number graduating classes, and the next graduating class will be the Class of 2359, so presumably that is the year. Although not necessarily, if Worf remembers correctly. He uses a padd to consult the computer.

“May 5th. In the small hours of the morning.” Worf clarifies.

“Hmm.” Hegel says, and then falls silent for a long moment. Worf is thinking about prompting him when he says, “May 4th, I had some assignments due for one of my classes. Precalculus and Civics. I’m doing well in Civics, it helps that I’ve already read Marx and Kropotkin. I am doing less well in Precalculus. I went up to a hill near my campsite that gets good reception and talked with my Precalculus teacher. He’s used to teaching little kids. I think I’m his only adult student. Because I was already set up to broadcast and receive, I stayed and settled some questions for Researcher Hoteth, of the Vulcan Science Academy. After it started to get dark, I went back to my campsite and drank alcohol while listening to 21st century folk-punk music. I drank enough that my memory is somewhat compromised starting at around 2000 hours.”

Hegel’s speech, not the diction, but the rhythm and the excessive completeness, reminds Worf of someone. He does not find that familiarity comforting. 

Worf takes a more direct approach, “Did you take any action to cause or facilitate the death of Bruce Maddox?”

“How?” Hegel asks, “I was several hundred lightyears away from him when he died. When. Strange. According to the physics I learned before all this, someone that far away shouldn’t be in the same ‘slice of now’. But apparently he was, or at least close enough for conversation.”

“Did you undertake any acts of sabotage for the purpose of causing Bruce Maddox to die?” Worf asks, impatient with Hegel’s digressions.

“How?” Hegel asks again, irritatingly, “My modus operandi is well-documented. The means by which I’ve killed are crude explosives set 24 hour or less before detonation, flooding a location with toxic gases and the use of projectile and bladed weapons. There is some debate as to whether the dirty needles count as murder or assault, given the long latency period of the agents used and the low likelihood of death with proper medical care.”

Worf is familiar with that debate. He was even consulted by the judge who approved Hegel’s parole. He argued that the excess deaths attributable to Hegel and his unknown confederates with greater than 90% certainty should be counted among Hegel’s many murders. The judge was not receptive. 

“Yes or no. Did you or did you not play any role in the security breach and induced safety system failures that resulted in the death of Bruce Maddox?” Worf asks, trying valiantly to keep the frustration out of his voice.

“They have Data, don’t they?” Hegel asks, instead of responding, “They’re going to pin this on him and use it as an excuse to vivisect him, or… I don’t know if rape is the right word. ‘Apply severe reproductive coercion’ is more accurate, but lacks the correct emotional resonance.”

“Answer the question.” Worf insists, pushing through his rage at the thought.

Hegel pauses yet again and then makes and sustains eye contact, an act that, if Worf understands correctly, would usually be quite painful for the young human, “No. I did not kill Bruce Maddox, because I had no ability to. He was outside my physical reach, and I categorically lack the ability to effect the situation you describe.”

“Your parole officer notes that your computer skills are ‘excellent, and improving fast.’” Worf points out.

Hegel replies more quickly this time, “By which she meant to say that my ability to make use of computers for the purposes of education and handling my ongoing legal situation is greater than she would have expected from someone of my time. Not that I am in any form a threat to highly secure information infrastructure.”

Worf changes tack, “Do you deny that you had a contentious relationship with the deceased?”

"I do." Hegel says plainly, "There was no contention. I complied with him, submitted to him, gave him what he wanted from me. Let him call me the name of my corpse."

The last phrase hits Worf’s ears awkwardly, as if the Universal Translator isn’t able to properly convey Hegel’s meaning. He thinks of the footage of Hegel putting Maddox to bed.

“Did Commander Maddox take sexual advantage of you?” Worf asks, as delicately as he can.

“No.” Hegel says, and then pauses to consider, “That… wasn’t even really about me. Maddox was turned on by the idea of _making_ people. The control, and the mastery that entails. He wanted the person that he planned to carve out of my flesh, not me. It was a... familiar feeling.”

“Did you want-” Worf begins, but then klaxons sound. The Enterprise is at Red Alert.

“I must go.” Worf tells Hegel, and makes his way to the Bridge.

On his way, he checks in with his subordinates over the comms. Someone or something has infiltrated the Enterprise’s computer systems, and they’re quickly locking everyone else out. This is not good.

\---

In his cell, Hegel considers his situation. When the drug wears off he will be rattled by this experience. Ashamed of his cooperation, enraged about being drugged. But here and now, in the grips of this artificial calm, he recognizes that he has been very, very lucky. If Worf hadn’t drugged him, he wouldn’t be so conveniently numb, and he wouldn’t have been able to lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's going to be a graphic depiction of violence in the next chapter. I still haven't decided how graphic. I could reasonably calibrate it to anywhere from horror film level to tv action series level. If you have a strong preference, please let me know in the comments.


	11. Hope, Stupidity, and the Inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The murderer strikes again, revealing himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the tags. This chapter not only continues the discussion of Bruce Maddox's terrible dream diary, there is also graphic torture.

It’s a strange thing, the way one’s training and experience takes over in an emergency situation. Captain Picard is listening to reports from all over the ship, coordinating the emergency response. He is calm, and resolute. At the same time, Jean-Luc is watching in horror as control over his ship is wrested from him. He is extremely conscious of his own helplessness

“Shuttlecraft guidance is down.” Someone says, “Hangar atmospheric control is down.”

“Begin emergency evacuation of all hangar personnel.” Picard orders.

"Aye, sir."

"Captain, the program that's taking over our computers is trying to lock onto an external signal and send it to viewscreens all over the ship." LaForge says over the comms, "I'm trying to get the external communication array back online, but I can't do that without letting the signal through."

Picard considers their options for a fraction of a second, "Let it through. Begin tracing the origin of the signal the moment the external array is back online" 

The Bridge viewscreen comes to life. It shows Admiral Haftel, sitting at his desk on his flagship. Behind him is… Jean-Luc's first thought is that it's Data. That all his half-formed, unspoken fears have come to pass. He's out of uniform, but he would be, if it came to that. There is blood, splattered in fine droplets on the desk, and dripping from Haftel's nose. It's only when the android standing behind him smiles, broad and vicious, that Picard is completely certain that it's Lore.

"Oh good, we're live. Smile, Admiral, everyone can see you." Lore says, with a falsely comforting hand on Haftel's shoulder, "Is there anything you'd like to say to your audience?"

-

In the brig, Andy Hegel says, “Oh. Shit.”

-

"My name is Anthony Haftel. Rank: Admiral. My flagship, the _Nathaniel Hale_ has been hijacked by the rogue android Lore. My crew is being held hostage."

The _Hale_ patrols the Federation's border, near the Neutral Zone. At maximum warp, it would take the closest ship several hours to reach them, at best. Assuming that Lore has paralyzed the _Hale_ the same way he has the _Enterprise_ , Haftel and his crew are entirely at Lore's mercy. Jean-Luc is uncomfortably reminded of the perverse games Q drags him into.

“Picard to Engineering. I want everything we’re seeing reported to Starfleet Command as soon as possible.”

“Aye, sir. The docking points with the Starbase are still open, so I was thinking I could send someone over there with a cable. But if we do, we might spread the infection to the Starbase computer.” Geordi explains.

Picard has just begun to consider which course of action will damn them less, when he’s interrupted.

"Uh, Captain, sir?" a reedy, hesitant voice that Picard doesn't recognize says, over Geordi's combadge, "But what if we captured video from one of the screens with an un-networked padd and then sent someone over with that? We, uh, could work out a bucket brigade type of thing."

"What the hell are you doing with an un-networked padd, Barclay?! With _multiple_ un-networked padds?!" LaForge says.

"A problem for another time, gentlemen. Make it so, Mr. Barclay.."

A problem that will have to be dealt with. Perhaps severely. What Barclay has done is not only a violation of Starfleet regulations, but of Federation law. Deliberately concealing data from automated mass surveillance sweeps is Obstruction of Justice. Depending on what’s _on_ Mr. Barclay’s padds, it might be _much_ worse. But right now, the more pressing issue is pinpointing the _Hale’s_ position so that a rescue can be mounted.

“Now, gentlemen, if not sooner.” Picard adds.

"An excellent summation, Admiral." Lore says, before reaching down under the desk.

There is a loud crack, and Haftel screams for a long moment that seems to drag on forever. At length, the scream subsides into sobbing, and then to hyperventilation and a fragile, wavering composure. 

Lore looks off-screen for a moment, and then he begins to laugh, looking directly at the screen. Jean-Luc feels as if the android is staring directly at him. "You handed him over _already_ ? Why am I not surprised? But that's just _fine_ . This isn't about him. It's about _her._ "

_Her_. That's unexpected. In his short time on the Enterprise, Lore didn’t demonstrate sincere warmth or attachment towards anyone, not even his brother. It’s surprising, to say the least, that he kept close enough tabs on Data to find out what happened to Lal, and even more so that he cared enough to do… this, to Admiral Haftel.

A look of abject terror passes over Haftel’s face, followed swiftly by resignation.

Lore grips Haftel’s right arm. The touch seems almost gentle. But there’s another loud crack. And more screaming. Jean-Luc is seized by an almost overwhelming urge to turn away. To order LaForge to cut power to the viewer. From this horror. From the slow and agonizing death of a man he respects. But Picard knows he cannot. He must be stoic for his crew. He must not waver. He must not look away.

“Let’s do a little reading, Admiral.” Lore says, as Haftel struggles to stop weeping from pain, “Ahem, ‘I had the dream again. About the new android. It’s always so vivid…’”

Lore proceeds to read aloud the document that Geordi brought Picard just a couple of hours ago. The document that made Data clench his hand into a fist so hard he shattered a padd. The rogue android reads in a sickeningly dramatic tone, mockingly feigning rising sexual arousal as the document progresses. It is in that moment that Picard is absolutely certain that Lore killed Bruce Maddox.

“That… that was written after the prototype stopped… after she died.” Haftel gasps out, “We didn’t know, when I came for her.”

“Ah, so you admit that Starfleet reads its officers’ personal logs.” Lore says, “And here I thought I was going to have to _pry_ that out of you. A shame. I _was_ looking forward to that.”

Jean-Luc has always known his logs were subject to search, if he was under suspicion for a crime, or if he should die mysteriously. And of course, eventually, for the historical record. But the idea that such logs might be read for something so trivial as evaluating an officer’s suitability for a project... It’s an awful thought. He thinks of everything he’s put in his personal logs. About Q, the nightmares he has about his omnipotent tormenter and the anguish he feels, knowing that there’s absolutely no way to be sure that those... terrible things didn’t actually happen. About the way that Worf still disgusts him, ever so slightly. About how unsettling he finds Data, sometimes, the lingering fear that someday he’ll just… snap. About Marianne. About _Beverly_. He tries to tell himself that Starfleet would never have found it necessary. But Q. Those dreams. Someone has almost certainly read those, at least. On some level, he already knew that. He doesn’t appreciate the reminder

He’s so consumed by his own petty anxieties and feelings of humiliation that he’s barely paying attention when Lore breaks another of Haftel’s bones. A rib. Surely at some point, the Admiral will pass out from shock. Soon, Picard hopes. 

“But I expected you might say that, so I prepared a few… other selections.” Lore says, casually, as if he’s giving some mundane talk, as if he isn’t torturing someone, “Let’s see. Stardate 18339.9: ‘My thoughts are consumed by the android. The way it moves. The way it talks. If the rest of the board sees reason, I’m going to petition them, and whoever else I have to convince, to let me study the android. I want to take it apart, find out what circuit or subroutine makes it so damned stubborn, and put it back together again. It will make a fine lab assistant, once it lets go of this ‘joining Starfleet’ nonsense.’”

Haftel is still crying, unable to steel himself any longer.

“But then, it was no secret that Bruce Maddox was obsessed with my brother, and that Starfleet made no effort to discourage him. That’s _fine,_ my brother _chose_ his servitude. But what about this? Stardate 42523.7: ‘Last night, I dreamed of an android, based on Data. I suppose gynoid would be the correct term. It was female, with the same gold skin and eyes. It _knew_ me. Intimately. Everything I like. And it enjoyed all of it. It was heart-breakingly perfect. Zimmerman always said I need to try holograms. For relief. And I did, and I do, but it’s all so disgustingly fake. I want something real, something that understands what’s happening, that’s still there when I’m done. Something that remembers.’”

Lore’s theatrical tone is increasingly compromised by rage. It makes his voice unsteady, and ragged. In this moment, Data's broken brother is disturbingly human. Picard’s stomach turns at the recounting of Maddox’s dreams. That one would have been… oh god, it would have been during that shameful hearing. He knew that there was something _off_ about the man. The way his gaze _lingered_ on Data. The way that he seemed to go out of his way to humiliate the android in little, deniable ways. But this… Jean-Luc does not, cannot know what he might do if he found out someone had written things like this about his own family. About René. 

"Yes or no, Admiral," Lore asks, his voice perilously soft now, "Did you know about Bruce's _active fantasy life_ when you assigned him to _study_ Lal?"

Haftel gulps air and struggles to speak with dignity, he must know that each word could be his last, "I would have watched him. I wouldn't have let him…"

Lore interrupts him, "Watched him? Personally? Around the clock? And what would you have done if Maddox did what you knew he dreamed of doing? Expelled your best cyberneticist from Starfleet? No. You and I _both_ know that you would have tolerated a little _misuse of Starfleet property_ for the advancement of your own pitiful understanding. And you knew you’d have to. You _knew,_ as soon as you saw her, _didn't you_?"

Admiral Haftel closes his eyes, perhaps from exhaustion, or possibly from shame.

“Didn’t you!?” Lore, yells, no, not yells, _screams_ , in rage and anguish, right into Haftel’s ear.

The Admiral opens his eyes, steadies himself as well as could be expected, under the circumstances, and says, “Yes. I knew. And I did it anyway. For the Federation. For Starfleet. And I’d do it again.”

The admission seems to break him as much, or more so, than all that came before.

Lore grips the back of Anthony Haftel’s neck, and snaps it with an effortless flick of his wrist. A relatively painless death, Picard notes, mildly surprised. Haftel collapses forward onto his desk, his limbs lying at unnatural angles.

Lore looks at the screen one last time, “How could you be so _stupid_ , Brother? What did you _think_ would happen? _Don’t_ do it again.”

Picard knows that Starfleet Command will puzzle over Lore’s meaning, but he does not. The awful benefit of hindsight makes it perfectly clear. If Data were not so trusting, not so wonderfully optimistic, not so in love with humanity, he never would have trusted them: the Federation, Starfleet, human beings, Jean-Luc Picard himself, to protect a being as terribly vulnerable as Lal.

The viewer goes dark, and slowly, the Enterprise’s systems come back under his control. In just a moment, Picard will be hailed by Starfleet Command. They will begin the process of rescuing the _Hale_ , and the attempt to bring Lore to justice. In a moment. He can have a moment. A minute, perhaps, to cradle his head in one hand and try to recover from what he’s just seen.

-

In a cell in the Enterprise’s brig, Andy Hegel is of two minds. On one hand, he regrets that he was drugged. That he wasn’t able to fully experience the bloody satisfaction of watching Haftel die. On the other, he’s grateful that the drug Worf gave him suppressed, among other things, the wide grin and flaps of joy Andy would otherwise not have been able to contain.

-

Later, when Data is reviewing the footage of his brother’s most recent crime, he reassesses the probability of several propositions. Most notably, the probability that he did in fact commit the crime he was accused of, and selectively erase portions of his memory after the fact. After he viewed the document provided to him by Lieutenant Marse, he assessed that probability at 62.41%. Now, he assesses it at a mere 1.37%.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always to Klaaraa. I sincerely doubt that I would still be writing this without her.


	12. Grief Came Like a Thief in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andy receives an unexpected late night visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added some new tags to cover this chapter. They're heavy. Read them before you continue

On Stardate 36342, or May 5, 2359, depending on when you’re from, in the small hours of the morning, Andy Hegel lays half-awake on a large pile of inflatable camp cushions. An unnecessarily large number of camp cushions. Some would argue, an unreasonably large number of camp cushions. They’re inflatable, but they feel like nice fluffy pillows and a few afternoons tinkering with Baby’s First Tricorder Playset demonstrated that they’ll also deflect a passive security scan. The effect isn’t conspicuous, because it’s a known property of the object. They’re a smuggler’s wet dream. Andy loves them.

He has music on, and he’s drunkenly singing along, as he weighs whether to get up and get another bottle of wine. It’s a bit of a pain in the ass to get booze on Earth, now, and almost impossible to get it in quantity. Replicators won’t make it, not just for Andy, but for anyone. And the places that serve it have some disturbingly minimalist ideas about when it’s time to cut a man off. 

But some dude in France, a Picard, but not the Captain, got in touch a little while ago and started sending him wine. He called Andy a ‘family-friend.’ Which is objectively insane. Arriane and François Philippe were two of his 14th great grandparents. He’s no more related to them than he is to any random white francophone. Probably less so. There are exactly zero good reasons for him to be so attached to the idea of being one of Arriane’s descendants, but Andy chose not to ask any questions that might compel him to not accept free alcohol in bulk. The planetary postal service is amazing. Andy doesn’t even have an official address, but the wine shows up every month at the ranger station by Lake June. 

“ _And he said something about... How we need the cops to protect us. And I snapped_.” Andy sings to himself, very badly, when he hears a rustle in the trees.

It’s not the wind. There’s no wind tonight, and it’s miserable. The air is sticky and foul-smelling. He pauses the music for a moment, to listen more closely. There’s definitely rustling. Something big. Maybe even person-sized. Andy’s first instinct is to freeze. His first instinct is always to freeze. But he fights it. Beneath several layers of cushions, a stolen knife finds his hand, brushing past a highly illegal padd, and he makes himself get up.

He continues to sing to himself as he walks, very slowly, very carefully to the door, “ _Protect us like the time that you got kidnapped by the pigs. They tore up the house on their way out_.”

The rustling is getting louder. There’s definitely something there. He sings louder. He’s learned that even the larger wildlife around here can be scared off by a little bit of a racket.

“ _So when Scott got home, he’d worry that you’d been taken by somebody worse_ .” He sings, standing in the doorway, his heart pounding, “ _I played a show that night, although my blood was fire in my mouth-_ ”

There. To the left. In the distance. A glint of something, disappearing and reappearing as it passes behind trees, getting closer. The moon is about half-full, and at first the faint silver light makes it difficult to make out. But Data’s skin is all… shiny. But that can't be right. What the hell would Data be doing here, at the ass-end of the planet Earth?

Andy finishes the verse, almost entirely certain he’s dreaming, “ _Until he walked into the room, still free… at least for now._ ”

“Hello.” Data says, almost perfunctorily, and abruptly adds, “ _Why_ are you singing so _loudly_?”

Andy lets his head cock to one side. Data sounds… not like Data. But then again, Andy is probably literally the drunkest man on Earth right now, and no one’s sounded quite like themselves since the surgery. 

As his quizzical silence begins to drag awkwardly, Andy tries to explain the local wildlife’s aversion to noise and fear of humans and other people-things, but what comes out is, “Bears.”

“Bears.” Data repeats, Andy could almost imagine incredulously, as he crosses the clearing.

Andy nods, “Scares ‘em.”

"And the knife?"

Andy blinks in confusion for a moment. There's no reason for him to be holding a knife. He could scare a small animal off without it, and he's not under any illusions about his ability to take down an angry bear with a six inch blade. He begins to laugh.

"It's for ghosts." He says, but that doesn't make any sense, so he tries again, "It's a habit. Instilled by people who died a long time ago. Please don't report me. I don't plan to hurt anyone, I just... can't sleep without it."

Andy is suddenly far less certain that he's dreaming, and very aware that he's arguably brandishing a knife at a Starfleet officer.

"I won't report you." Data says, as if the idea is faintly ridiculous, and _that's_ really not like him, but Andy is too relieved to care

“May I…” Data looks at the shack dubiously, “Come in?”

A month ago, Andy would have said no. He likes Data, but that doesn’t mean he’s about to invite a uniformed member of the military that apparently runs this society, into his house. Shack. Hut. Place of residence. But three weeks ago, on one of the unfortunate occasions that Andy had to trudge to the local spaceport, catch a shuttle to Starbase One, and tolerate Bruce Maddox’s prying fingers probing brain-adjacent areas, Maddox idly mentioned Data’s 'new android' and how unfortunate it was that ‘it stopped working.’

And Andy is stupid. He’s soft. And he understands just the tiniest fraction of what Data's going through. 

So he says, “Yeah, okay”, and leads the android inside. 

"You can, uh," For the first time, Andy feels ashamed of his makeshift home, "Sit down anywhere, if you want."

"No thank you." Data says dismissively.

"Drink?" Andy offers, grabbing a fresh bottle of wine.

"Why do you persist in offering me things I have no need for?" Data asks sharply.

The grief must really be setting him on edge. Making him irritable. Probably worse than irritable, if it's noticeable to a virtual stranger like Andy. He wonders if Data is aware of it.

"Because I don't have anything that you need." Andy says.

An instant later he realizes that he's lying. Data desperately needs insurance. Against Bruce Maddox, against Starfleet. And Andy has it. Buried in his cushions, on a padd with a hole drilled neatly through its transceiver. But that's where it'll stay. Data is, for whatever reason, willing to overlook the knife, but this is another matter, several felonies that add up to… sedition, maybe? One of those big crimes that humans used to kill each other over.

"I need to talk to you." Data says, more mildly than before.

"Me?" Andy asks, "Why me?"

He's gathered that Data has friends. At least one friend, the blind guy that Maddox asked him about at the conference. What could possibly make Andy preferable to Data over people who actually know him?

"You know Maddox." Data says, gesturing at Andy's head, "You know what kind of man he is."

Andy should deny it. Admiral Haftel made it perfectly clear that his continued freedom depends on his value as good PR for Maddox. But pretending, to Data, of all people, that Maddox isn't a vile creep, would be absurd. Obscene. Especially now. The bitter edge on Data's voice strengthens a certain suspicion of Andy's into a near certainty. 

Andy flops despondently onto his cushion pile, "Yeah. I know _exactly_ what kind of man Bruce Maddox is. You were right, you know. To do what you did."

"You said that, before. In your message. After _she_ died. What do you mean?" Data asks, stepping closer.

Oh. Data isn’t autistic, because his brain is nothing like a human brain. He was never a fetus, he never underwent neural apoptosis, he doesn’t have myelin. But he’s something like autistic. He has trouble with ambiguous language. And there’s no one to help him learn the little tricks and heuristics that Andy learned when he was a kid. Because everyone just writes it off as Data being an imperfect mirror of a neurotypical human being. 

If Andy wants to be understood, he has to be explicit. But what if he's wrong? Data claims not to have emotions, but that's clearly bullshit, and if Andy is wrong… There's no imaginable apology that would be sufficient. 

"When I realized I was pregnant, after Boston," Andy says, simultaneously wishing that he was both more and less drunk, "It was late, because I didn't have any reason to think… It was really late. I thought about keeping it. Not raising it. I was a kid and I had a war to fight. But giving birth and sending it to live with my grandfather. He raised one orphan, why not another? But he was old, and we didn't have any other family, after…"

Andy's conflicting desires resolve, and he grabs another bottle of wine. Data looks on impatiently as he rummages for the fancy space corkscrew. He touches it to the neck of the bottle and the cork is ejected with a gentle pop.

He takes a long swig, "I knew, that if my kid were born, they… he, it would've been a he, would probably fall into the hands of religious nutjobs or child farming assholes. And he would’ve been autistic, like me. And probably all fucked up from those drugs they put me on. Vulnerable. So I asked Rose to end it. And it was awful. Terrible. But in a sick kind of way, I was relieved. I didn't have to worry for him anymore. He was safe, like King Duncan."

"What does that have to do with anything?” Data asks, irritably.

That’s not like him. That’s not like him at all. Something’s wrong. Then, again, everything’s wrong.

“It means.” Andy says, finding his courage, for lack of any other way to get through, “That I aborted a fetus far later than I otherwise would have been able to stomach, because I knew there was nothing for him in the world but pain and fear. I think… I think that you… killed Lal for the same reason. I think that, because it's what I would've done."

He takes another long swig of wine, it’s fantastic stuff and it deserves better than being carelessly swilled like this, “If I’m wrong, I’m so sorry. I have an issue with seeing dark shit where it isn’t there.”

Data stares at him for a long, fraught moment, and then walks closer, looming over Andy in a way that makes his stomach clench in fear. Then, the imposing android just sort of… slumps down to set next him on the cushion pile, his body far more fluid and mobile than Andy’s seen before.

“You might be right." Data says, pensively.

“ _Might_ be right _?_ ” Andy asks, not following. 

Data pauses for a long moment, but then explains, “My brother and I have fungible memories. It was more _convenient_ for our father. I… most likely wiped my memory of what I did.”

Andy sucks in a long shuddering breath, “Jesus Christ. What a colossal piece of shit.”

Data gives him a murderous look that even Andy can decode, so he clarifies, “Your father, I mean. That’s god-tier child abuse.”

“I was never a child.” Data says, but sounds mollified.

“Big mood.” Andy says.

“Are you any more coherent when you’re sober?” Data asks, presumably from concern, even though his tone doesn’t sound that way right now.

“Marginally.” Andy says, and then adds, “Yes. No one notices anything wrong with my speech anymore, so long as I mind my idioms. But I am so _fucking_ tired of minding my idioms.”

They sit in silence for a while longer. 

“Earlier,” Data says, “You said that you didn’t have anything I needed. We both know that’s not true.”

Andy goes very, very still, all of his tangled, fleeting thoughts go quiet, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Data sighs in frustration, “ _Someone_ accessed Bruce Maddox’s personal files while he was unconscious from alcohol intoxication. You were the last person seen with him that night. And besides, you’re a _terrible_ liar. You might as well have confessed just now.”

“It’s a theory of mind task. Lying.” Andy says, feeling numb, “He left his padd unlocked, and I… needed insurance.”

“So do I.” Data says, and he’s not wrong. Not wrong at all.

Andy closes his eyes for a moment and tries to think clearly, an enormous effort under the weight of all the wine he’s had tonight. Giving Data the padd is the right thing to do. But it makes him vulnerable. What if Data feels guilty later and turns them both in? But on the other hand, it’s not like he really has a choice. Data is clearly having a grief induced breakdown, and he wants something that Andy has. There’s not much that Andy can do to stop him, if he decides to take it.

He digs among the cushions and pulls out the padd. He considers asking Data to make a copy, but if Data ever needs to use what’s on there, having a copy of that same damning information would be an enormous liability. So he hands it over.

“There’s enough there to cause a scandal. Or blackmail. More than enough for blackmail. It’s uh, pretty heavy stuff. Terrible, disgusting stuff.” Andy says awkwardly, feeling bereft after giving up such a powerful weapon.

“Thank you.” Data says, absent-mindedly as he begins to read the contents with inhuman speed.

His body tenses visibly as he reads. His left hand clenches into a fist. He stands up and looms over Andy again.

“We will never speak of this again.” Data says, with finality.

Andy nods, “Fine with me.”

And then he walks out. Without saying goodbye. And there’s a voice in Andy’s head telling him that something isn’t right, but it’s faint and easily overwhelmed by everything else going on in there. 

“Be safe!” He calls out to Data’s fast receding form before he disappears among the trees. 

Data doesn’t respond. He just keeps going. Andy stares at the wall for a long time, reeling, before he sets about drinking himself to sleep.

When he wakes up, the memories come back to him in disconnected bursts. His bleary, terribly hung-over brain fixes on how odd Data’s behavior was. He’s not well. Not well at all. Andy staggers up the signal hill, shielding his over-sensitive eyes from the rising sun, and tries to think of something to say that might convince Data to get some kind of help. Privately, of course. It would be disastrous if Starfleet got the slightest whiff that Data was anything other than the perpetually reliable lapdog they’ve grown used to. 

He stares at the screen of his padd. He can’t tell Data what to do, and he can’t talk about what happened last night. So he settles for ‘Did you get home okay?’

It’s only later, after he’s downed a couple of liters of water and eaten, that he realizes. What happened. What he’s done. Data has a brother. Andy reminds Data of him. Data never said they were twins, but…

He thinks about going back up the hill and seeing what’s publicly available, if anything, about Data’s brother. But that would leave an incriminating trace, and besides, there’s no undoing what he’s done. Not without going to prison, at the very least. And the ridiculous, shameful thing is, Andy _is_ afraid of a Federation prison. More and more afraid, every day that he’s free.

So he’ll keep his mouth shut. Wait for it to blow over. As he tries to sort through and calm his emotions, he finds to his surprise that among the fear and dread, the frustration with himself for being so slow on the uptake, the uncertainty about what happens next, there is the faintest ray of hope. For justice. Or something like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this one, folks. I hope you've enjoyed it. The next work will be "Three Days the World Ended" Thanks as always to my beta Klaaraa.


End file.
